


The Lion in Winter, Part I: The Murder of Jon Arryn

by EmpressofMankind



Series: The Lion in Winter [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV), Game of Thrones (Tabletop RPG)
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Canon Compliant, Canon LGBTQ Character, Did I write this fanfic to make Tywin happy or to make Tywin miserable?, F/F, F/M, Family Drama, Family Fluff, Family Shenanigans, Fantasy, Feudalism, Historical Fantasy, House Lannister, LGBTQ Character, Least of all me, M/M, Multi, NO ONE KNOWS, No Game of Thrones | A Song of Ice and Fire Knowledge Required, Nobility, Original Character(s), POV Jaime Lannister, POV Jon Arryn - Freeform, POV Multiple, POV Third Person Limited, POV Tywin Lannister, Protective Jaime Lannister, Royalty, Scheming, Spoilers for Book 1 - A Game of Thrones, Tyrion Lannister Ships It, Tyrion Lannister deserved better, Tyrion Lannister is a Good Sibling, Tywin Lannister's A+ Parenting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-15
Updated: 2020-11-10
Packaged: 2020-12-16 18:08:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 63,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21040520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmpressofMankind/pseuds/EmpressofMankind
Summary: I added one (1) original character: Lady Loren Lannister of Lannisport, and wed her to Lord Tywin Lannister. Thereby shifting the socio-political dynamics of House Lannister and exploring how everyone else has adjusted to it. Nobody thought he'd wed again, least of all himself. The story starts near a decade post-fact, around the same time as the first book ('A Game of Thrones'), and begins with the murder of Jon Arryn and how this many Lannisters wound up at Winterfell through book-style PoV chapters of Tywin, Loren, their ten-year-old son Kevan (Jr), Jaime and even Jon Arryn. Adding soon Cersei, Tyrion, Robert and once we get on the road to Winterfell: Joan (Jon), Arya, Sansa, Eddard and Catelyn.The end game? A North-West political power block and a dynasty that will last a thousand years. Obviously.





	1. KEVAN I

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoy this wack rollercoaster through familiar territory! If you feel like it, leave a comment - I love hearing what you guys thought. Enjoy!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter last updated/tweaked 07-06-2020

_It was the midsts of winter when a kinslaying broke her heart. The Maiden-Made-of-Light turned her back on them, and the world slid into the Long Night_. Kevan put the pastel down and looked at his creation with a critical eye. He’d drawn a slender woman in a dress as red as blood. Her golden hair fell in braided tresses, and her fair brow was crowned with rays of light. She smiled at him from across her pale shoulder with soft, emerald eyes. She walked into the paper, from which emerged the tall, dark-clad shape of a man. _She was betrayed, and the Lion of Night came forth in all his wroth to punish the wickedness of Man_. Kevan picked up an ochre pastel and added flecks to her cheeks and his eyes. _Better_.

“Are they Mama and Papa?”

Kevan flinched. The pastel slipped from his grasp and broke on the red sandstone. Helanna stood beside him, her velveret horse under her arm. A gift from Father. Lady Whinny, she called it.

“No.” _That was stupid_. He hadn’t drawn Mother and Father, he wasn’t a baby. Kevan put his pastels in their tin. It was a small but well-loved set, crumbling and priceless, which had been imported from far away Essos. 

The adults said winter was coming, but in King’s Landing, it felt far off. For the morning had come hot and humid, the moist of the night’s rain still in the air. Kevan had woken early. He knew because the hearth in their shared bedroom had been cold which meant the servants were yet abed. Out on the balcony, he had watched the sun rise and worked on his drawing. He’d made it on the last of the palimpsests Father had given him before he left.

“Who are they?” his little sister asked as she sat down on the ground, beside him.

“No one. Ancient rulers, maybe,” Kevan said. _Definitely not Pa and Ma_. “Their legend is from far away and long ago. They are very old.”

“Older than uncle Lann?” Helanna pulled her knees up under her chin, Lady Whinny squeezed against her. The toy horse had been loved to death, its patterned velveret threadbare.

Kevan frowned. Tyrion hadn’t told him when the Long Night had happened. Was it before Lann the Lion had come West? The mythical founder of their House had lived long ago, too. He would ask their older brother when he saw him. “I think so? Bad people made her sad.”

Helanna’s gaze flicked down to the drawing. “That’s not nice.”

“No,” Kevan agreed. “But the Lion of Night made them pay their debt.”

“Papa would do that for Mama too.” Helanna’s nose wrinkled as she pointed a small finger at the masculine figure. Black, lion-like shapes had been coloured onto the grey fabric of his gambeson. “Papa’s lion is golden, not sable.”

“It’s not Pa.”

Helanna looked at him and the wrinkle in her nose creased deeper. Then she returned her attention to the drawing. “She’s very pretty, like the Lion Queen.”

‘Lion Queen’ was the name Helanna had given the life-size painting of a seated Lady, which hung in the solar at home, because it was surrounded by limestone lions. She liked to pretend she was the Lion Queen’s lady-in-waiting. Kevan looked at the woman he’d drawn. She did look a bit like her. _Lots of women have blond hair_, he thought. _Aunt Genna and auntie Tailyn. Princess Myrcella and my sisters, too, and cousin Joy. And Ma._ He didn’t like the painting of the Lion Queen because it made Pa sad. Tyrion had told him she was his Ma. She had died. All of a sudden tears pricked Kevan’s eyes. He wanted to hug his mother, but he didn’t get up. He wasn’t a baby.

Helanna leaned her head against his shoulder, yearning in her sea-green eyes as she stared at the drawing. “Why is Papa angry?”

“It’s not Father!” Kevan rolled his shoulder, forcing her to sit up. He blinked his tears away, confused and angry. _Lions do not cry._

She stared at him now, her eyes large and sad and rapidly becoming moist. Her bottom lip trembled. His shoulders slumped. This was the longest and farthest they’d been away from Father, ever. “You can see the Golden Tooth from here.” He pointed at a jagged peak among the distant western mountains. “We can watch the sun paint it gold and Father will be on the other side watching too.”

A hopeful smile appeared on her small face.

Kevan reached his arms out to her. She climbed onto his lap and snuggled against him, Lady Whinny between them. They gazed through the thick sandstone balusters together and watched the dawn creep across the Crownlands. It snuck towards the distant peaks, like a mountain lion stalking unsuspecting prey. When the warm morning light caught up to the jagged peak, it painted it in bright yellows amid its white peers: a gold tooth in the Westerlands’ pearly smile. Kevan leaned his head against the red sandstone and wondered if their father was watching, too. He always rose early, long before dawn.

“I miss Papa.” A little sob followed Helanna’s words.

Kevan hugged his sister’s narrow shoulders and stroke her forehead, like Father would. She was only five, a baby. It was the ninth year of summer and the tenth of his life. He'd been born on the tail of winter. His father said it was what made him strong. His mother would respond with a sad smile that Kevan didn’t understand. “Pa will be here soon,” he promised. “I will become a squire today, and he’ll be here for that, you’ll see.”

Kevan had been Ser Kevan’s page for two years now. Today, he would become a squire: his first real step on the road to knighthood. _Maybe I will become Ser Barristan’s squire_, he thought. _He was everything a knight should be - strong, smart, kind_. He knew it was more likely that he would become his uncle’s squire as it was unusual for a page to squire to a different knight. This made him a little jealous of his cousin Tyrek, who was squire to King Robert. He wondered why his big brother Jaime didn’t have a squire.

Helanna made a little noise. She had fallen asleep, her thumb in her mouth behind Lady Whinny’s tattered snout. With effort, Kevan lifted her up and brought her back to her bed. She curled up in the warm bedding without waking, mushing the threadbare horse against her face. He returned to the balcony to pick up his drawing and pastel box. His gaze lingered on the Golden Tooth. He wanted to explore even though he knew he wasn’t supposed to.

He went back inside, dumped the items on his desk and tugged on pants. He forsook boots because he was quieter on his bare tiptoes. Opening their bedroom door on a crack, he spied down the twilit hallway — no one in sight, not even Ser Gnaeus. A mischievous glint made the ochre flecks in his pale green eyes sparkle. For Father was not here, and it made him bolder.

Silence reigned in Maegor's Holdfast, the massive square fortress at the heart of the Red Keep. Kevan roamed the corridors to his heart’s content and found a passage he hadn’t been before. It was a dark, tight affair with rough, unplastered walls. _A servants’ passage_, he thought as his heart rate picked up. They had them at home too, tucked between bedchambers and solars. _Where will it go? A hidden armoury? A treasury?_ He felt his way up the rickety wooden stairs. He pushed the panel door and it opened up behind a bust in a modest, old cabinet blanketed in silence and filtered morning light. It was little-used, judging by the dust that covered the Targaryen King’s broad, scowling countenance. As Kevan entered, his attention was drawn to an antique display case near the rear window where the first, weak rays of dawn fell onto something glistening within. 

He crossed the cabinet, his toes sinking into the plush rug. The glass of the display case was grimy, caked with dirt and dust. He rubbed the sleeve of his nightshirt past it to better see what laid within. It cleaned the glass but little and dirtied his sleeve a great deal. On a cushion as threadbare as his sister’s velveret horse, lay a beautiful dagger. Despite its neglected, dust-blanketed state, the light danced along its keen edge towards its smooth dragonbone hilt. 

Kevan regarded it, face all but pressed against the glass as he studied the dagger with the fascination of a boy keen to carry his own. _It must be ancient_, he thought, mesmerised by the steel’s ripples winking in the morning light. It was Valyrian steel, he was sure of it. _Why would anyone leave it here, forgotten?_ A frown wrinkled his nose. _I will tell Mother_. He had overheard his parents talking about Brightroar, their forefather’s Valyrian blade. Father had been looking for a replacement.

“This way, quickly.”

Kevan’s gaze shot to the door. Its handle moved down. The hinges creaked. He dashed behind a venerable chiffonier as it swung open. Panic and guilt vied for control of his thoughts. _Pa will ground me for life_.

A man with a small, pointed beard and dressed in fine silks entered. He was lean of frame but small of stature. _Two heads shorter than Pa, at least_, Kevan thought. He didn’t know the man. A portly woman followed close behind, her many-layered brocade dress rustling in her wake. She had thick, auburn hair that fell to her waist. He knew Lady Lysa, she was the wife of the Hand of the King, Lord Jon Arryn. His parents had introduced him to them when they first arrived at King’s Landing, prior to Prince Joffrey’s name day. Lady Lysa would undoubtedly inform his Ma, and so he made himself as small and quiet as could be.

“I can’t take it any more, Petyr.” Lysa clasped her hands together. She sounded fearful. _Surely Lord Jon will keep Lady Lysa safe? Pa would never let anything happen to Ma_, Kevan was confident.

“Just a little longer, now.” Petyr’s tone was soft, reassuring, encouraging, maybe. He had an accent, subtle but particular in the way he rolled his r’s. Kevan wondered which House he belonged to and peeked around the lacquered wood to see. Lady Lysa stood with her back towards him, her large behind dominating the view. Her ample silhouette hid the man from Kevan's sight, no matter which way he leaned to try and better see.

Petyr put his hand on her upper arm and tried to catch her gaze. Lysa flinched at his touch but then leaned into it. He smiled when her eyes crossed his. “Your boy will be safe soon.”

Lysa wrung her hands. “Everyone is trying to take him from me.”

“I know,” Petyr said as he rubbed her arm, his smile never faltering. “He belongs with his mother.”

“Even the Rock has started to meddle, Petyr,” Lysa continued, an edge of worry creeping into her tone. “They want to foster my little Rob! Can you imagine? My sweet, gentle robin, amid that nest of vipers.”

“Indeed? I did see their boy play with him, yester morn.”

“A wicked child. I’ve seen him skulking about, spying for them, no doubt.” Lysa moved abruptly, taking in her surroundings. 

Kevan dodged back behind the chiffonier, his heart hammering in his throat. _Are they talking about me?_ He had played with Robert Arryn yesterday. They all had? He didn’t understand. Robert had wanted to play! Kevan heard her move about the room, the click of her shoes disappearing as she stepped unto the carpet near the chiffonier.

“Vain and harebrained, like his mother,” Lysa added.

Kevan flattened himself against the floor, peering under the antique furniture. Lady Lysa’s dainty, green silk shoes halted near the display. They turned as Petyr’s lacquered boots approached.

“I doubt she caught the old lion’s attention idly.” Petyr’s tone was thoughtful. “It takes a particular flower to flourish on that rock.”

Lysa made a derisive noise. “She is half his age, and he’s been anxious for another son ever since mad Aerys schemed him out of his heir.”

They were very close now. Kevan waited, staring at their footwear. When Petyr’s boots turned their heels towards him too, he ran. Low. Fast. Bare feet whispering across the carpet and then tiles. He ducked behind the bust and through the crack he had come. 

“They were quick to produce one,” Petyr said, amusement lilting his voice.

In the shaded safety of the servants' corridor, Kevan’s fear bled away. He crept back to the door and peered out through the crack. They were standing at the chiffonier, the man with his back towards him. He held Lady Lysa’s hand, enclosing her fingers within his. 

“You rebuffed them?” 

“Yes. I would sooner die than let them weaponise my sweet robin.”

“Their interest has no doubt been noticed by others. That might work to our advantage.” Petyr turned, and Kevan could see him now. His gaze hunted around the man’s garments for a pattern or emblem, but when he found it, he did not recognise the black mockingbird on a field of ochre. A small lord, then? Kevan had thoroughly studied the charter of lords that Ser Kevan had given him. He was sure he had not seen it's like among them.

Lysa nodded, her fingertips brushing against Petyr’s hand before he let go and reached for something from the finely embroidered coin satchel at his hip. He produced a trinket that caught the morning light, drawing Kevan’s attention. It was a small droplet of glass, no larger than a thumb-tip, suspended from a silver chain. The clear liquid trapped inside moved hypnotically within. _What a pretty necklace_, Kevan thought, and it reminded him of the gifts Pa would bring for Ma when he came home.

“Your boy will be safe, soon,” Petyr promised once more.

Lysa stared at it with apprehension. Petyr moved his hand as if to give it to her, urging her to take it. She straightened and accepted it with a determined nod. Lysa held the pendant gingerly, mesmerised by the liquid; then swiftly tucked it into her ample bosom. Petyr smiled and leaned towards her. Kevan’s gaze jumped away to the rough stone wall when they kissed. It was only then that he realised what trouble he was truly in because that man was not Lord Jon. 

Kevan turned and fled. In his hurry, he missed one of the steps and tumbled down. His shoulder struck the uneven floor hard, and he bit back a cry of pain. He squeezed his eyes closed and tried to regulate his breathing, the way Ser Kevan had taught him, to calm down and control the pain. _Lions do not cry._

After a moment, he pushed himself up. All he had to do was return to his bed chambers and crawl back into bed. Ma and Pa need never know. A mewl wormed past his lips at the sharp pain that shot through his shoulder as he rose.

In the distance, a royal guard trumpeted the day’s start. He had to hurry, or the servants would find him missing when they came to light the hearth. He peered out. The corridor beyond was as quiet as it had been when he had come this way. He raced down the passages, back to the wing reserved for royal guests. Leaning around the final corner, he scouted the hallway. The door to his parents’ sleeping quarters was still closed. The door to his own bed chambers stood slightly ajar. _Almost there_.

“You are up early, younger Lord Kevan.”

Kevan froze when he heard Ser Gnaeus’ stern voice right behind him. The knight was of an age with his brother Tyrion but not remotely as fun. Kevan turned and opened his mouth, an excuse on his lips, but yelped when the knight grabbed him by the ear. 

“Spare me,” Ser Gnaeus said.

“Ouch! Let go! I am almost ten!”

“For all I care, you were the crown prince himself and of an age with him too.” Ser Gnaeus deflected the boy’s milling arms as he dragged the lordling with. 

“Your Lady Mother forbade you and you will listen to her.”


	2. LOREN I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: N/A
> 
> Chapter last updated/tweaked: 12-10-2020

Loren Lannister of Lannisport stood on a high, sprawling balcony atop Maegor's Holdfast, in the shadows cast by its thick walls as the sun rose behind her. Her gaze rested on the craggy western mountains, beyond which laid her home. It was warm already, despite the early hour, and the heavy, cloying smell of the bay water permeated the morning air. She missed the crisp, salty sting of the Sunset sea and the bracing winds rolling in from Kayce, beneath whose walls Lady Johanna Lannister had routed the Ironborn during the Dance of the Dragons, reclaiming the then dwindling glory of House Lannister in her young son's name. 

The Red Kraken had sacked Lannisport in those days, as it had been by others many times before and since. Loren smiled to herself. She recalled the last time Lannisport had been sacked well. Not ten years ago, Lord Balon Greyjoy, Lord of Pyke and the eponymous instigator of the Greyjoy rebellion, had thought he could secede from the Iron Throne, believing it weak in the wake of Robert Baratheon's coup. He'd thought wrong. Loren recalled it well because she had been there for it. When the rebellion rose, she and hers had fled the Iron Isles and sailed home for Lannisport, only to find the burning wrecks of the Lannister fleet lighting up the night. They had been torched at anchor: a three score and ten ships wrapping Lannisport in the gently swaying glow of firelight, giving the sacked ruin of the port city a softer, more flattering silhouette. Loren closed her eyes and recalled the smell of wood tar burning, the chafe of armour, the fatigue of battle, the stench of the dead rotting in the surf. They had fought and bled for every step from where they'd beached towards allied hold-outs. She smiled because, despite the death and destruction, it was a fond memory.

It was a fond memory because it was the day on which she first knew Tywin Lannister. Before then, she had only known of the Lord of Casterly Rock the way one knew of all paramount liege lords of Westeros: as an ill-defined conglomerate comprising half-recalled memories of distant glimpses, shaped by gossip and hearsay like the myths of old. Yet on that dreary morning, she had run into him, in the smouldering streets of Lannisport after a night's worth of fighting, and the blurry concept had taken the shape of a man. Before, she had known _of_ him. But that day, streaked in blood, caked with mud and drenched by midyear rains, she _knew_ him. Her gaze lingered on the western mountains. She missed him.

"I wonder how the weather fares, at Casterly Rock."

Loren glanced up from her reverie. Cersei Lannister came towards her, the click of her lacquered sandals upon the pale red stone loud and unwanted on this quiet morning. The Queen of the Seven Kingdoms wore a finely embroidered, high-waisted gown of crimson silk with shimmering, gold-threaded lions: no concessions to the royal crest. Even the delicate satlada she wore was all rubies and leonine weights. The first rays of dawn had scaled the Holdfast and danced in her curling golden hair, crowning her with fire.

"The sea will be rough, the water level high. Froth will coat the quay." Loren returned her gaze to the distant mountains. The sky beyond them was heavy with storm clouds, grey and foreboding. Though they were not quite as black as those billowing from ships burning at anchor. If the Ironborn decided to skirmish on the shores, a raven bearing news would take three days.

Cersei smiled but only scepticism reached her eyes. "You can tell that all the way from here?"

"The sea is ever wilful this time of year." Loren squinted at the peaks as she leaned her hands on the red stone balustrade. Her husband wanted his daughter and the royal children to join her when she returned to Casterly Rock. "You would know if you came home more."

"I am needed here, the King is kept busy with his many duties and needs my support." Cersei adjusted the draping of her heavy sleeves, fashioning them to cascade pleasingly past her wrist and down her arm.

_No, you're not. You prefer to be here, where you perceive power to be._ Robert no longer needed Cersei, now that she'd given him an heir and a spare. And he had never wanted her. Few at court wanted her involved in the matters of the realm, her clumsy politicking had seen to that. Loren raised a hand to point at the mountains. "Storm clouds. It'll be raining at home, and not little."

The look Cersei cast the mountains was brief and perfunctory. "Let us hope they don't come here. It would be a shame if something were to spoil little Kevan's special day." 

Loren frowned at the barbed comment. Cersei clearly didn't care about the weather here, or anywhere, even though she'd broached the subject. _What are you after, Cersei?_

Cersei smiled pleasantly, her expression unreadable. For now.

"Let the children join me, then." The royal children were most important, in the end. They and their upbringing. "Their grandfather should like their company and there is little fun for them to be had within these walls. At home, they can play in the mountain fields or down at the beach—."

"Out of the question." 

Cersei squared her shoulders, her meticulously painted lips curving down. "Joffrey needs to keep up his lessons."

_What he needs is a few moons out of your stranglehold_, Loren thought. "Ser Kevan can teach Joffrey while he is with us, just as he has Kevan."

"No. Joffrey is no longer an urchin playing with a wooden sword." Cersei made a dismissive gesture that raised Loren's hackles. _That 'urchin' is the future Lord of Casterly Rock, Cersei._ "Joffrey studies with the very best Braavosi swordmasters here," Cersei continued. "He needs more than a has-been knight who hasn't seen a battlefield in ten years."

Loren's smile evaporated into a thin line. _How dare you_. Ser Kevan was Cersei's own uncle and one of the preciously few people whose council Tywin valued. He had named their son for him. She curtailed her choler and laced her fingers, resting her hands against her abdomen. "How about Joffrey study with his grandfather, then?"

Cersei's expression fell in precisely the same fashion as when Robert told a particularly poor joke. Loren pursed her lips to hide her satisfaction. "Lord Tywin tutors Kevan, sketching historical scenarios for him to solve, having him calculate troop movements and supply needs. He has also brought him to vassal meetings. These things would benefit Joffrey, too." She paused for effect, tilted her head and smiled amicably. "Shall I ask him?"

Cersei's eyes squinted and lost all their loveliness. "I would remind you that I have spent my entire life observing my Lord Father's politics." 

Loren broke her gaze away and returned it to the western mountains, showing her back to the Queen. She ran her palms along the balustrade. Would Joffrey ever leave his mother's domineering shadow? He was so like her, too. Cersei ought to remind the realm that he is a Baratheon, for people liked to talk. "I apologise, I should have realised you teach Joffrey yourself. I am certain he will pride Lord Tywin before long." 

"I do wonder if he is satisfied with little Kevan's progress," Cersei said as she came to stand beside Loren. "He's not too quick to refine his forms, is he?"

Loren gazed at the western mountains, imagining her husband doing the same this very moment. He was ever dreadfully early to rise. She smiled, refused to bite. "I have not heard anything that would suggest he isn't content with our son."

Cersei lifted her chin, satisfaction setting a curl to her lips. "Well, that doesn't tell us so very much then." 

"Tywin is never shy with his opinions." Loren's smile twitched when she caught Cersei's flinch at hearing her father's name uncushioned by formalities. "If he found Kevan's performance wanting, we would have surely heard," she continued, her tone amiable, as if they were still discussing the weather. "Just as he remarked on Joffrey's… insights, last you were home."

Loren recalled the incident as clear as Penthosian crystalware. A recalcitrant, but ultimately unimportant, vassal had toed towards the Riverlands. As a test, Tywin had asked both boys what they thought the proper course of action to be. Kevan had suggested the lesser Lord's only son ward with them as insurance to his Lord Father's good behaviour. Joffrey, eager to please but woefully inadequate at gauging what that would take, had declared that a cowardly measure and made the tactless suggestion that the only proper response would be the minor House's complete annihilation. Tywin had made no secret of his opinion. Judging by the way displeasure gathered on Cersei's fair face like the storm clouds about the western mountains, the debacle had engraved itself into her memory, too.

Cersei drew herself up to her full height, tall and proud, and for a moment she looked Tywin's daughter as she towered over Loren. "Joffrey is tutored by the best teachers the realm has to offer. What my Lord Father thinks of the crown prince his plans of action is irrelevant, he owes him his allegiance as our future King."

Loren's eyebrows rose. They both knew that was a lie. Cersei cared a great deal about what Tywin thought, particularly regarding herself and her children. She defused her challenge with a placating clincher. "You're Joffrey's mother, you know best."

Cersei folded her hands on the pale red stone of the balustrade, slender thumbs crossing. She smiled softly and her mien became gentler for it. "I do, as do you for Kevan."

Loren frowned at her sudden shift in demeanour: her platitude hadn't been that good.

"Though not all mothers. I worry for little Robert Arryn." Cersei glanced at her, concern furrowed her smooth brow. "Kevan likes to play with him, doesn't he?"

Where was she going with this? Loren wondered if she knew Joffrey called the sickly boy cruel names. Though considering the remarks she'd overheard the twins make about their disabled brother, perhaps she knew and didn't care. 

"He doesn't mind. Though Lady Lysa doesn't approve. Too rough, she says, too wild."

Cersei smiled and it actually reached her emerald eyes. "Kevan is a healthy young boy."

Loren inclined her head, taking the compliment as it came. "Children should run free. Life will reign them in, soon enough."

Cersei nodded though Loren could not recall last she'd seen one of the royal children climb a tree or jump in a puddle of midyear rain. "Robert may be sickly but he isn't made of glass," Cersei said. "Lady Lysa is overprotective, softening him further by shielding him too much. I fear she will smother him."

_Like how you're smothering Joffrey?_ Loren kept her expression carefully neutral. The crown prince was heir to the Iron Throne and wanted to be noticed, to be respected, to be loved. However, he was poorly equipped to impress the men he wanted to be noticed by and Cersei wasn't helping by keeping him under her wing. She resolved to find a way to bring Joffrey to Casterly Rock, for his sake. "Lady Lysa is an involved mother and Robert is lucky to have such devotion."

Cersei pursed her lips, evidently she disagreed. "Perhaps, Robert could be fostered at Casterly Rock? It'd be good for the boy."

Loren considered, shelving Cersei's interest in the young heir to the Eyrie for later inspection. No one had been fostered at Casterly Rock since before she'd wed its Lord. She agreed that it would be good for the boy, as it would be for Joffrey. Tywin wanted to ward and tutor his grandson. He had been in no way unclear that she was to bring his daughter and the royal children with her when she returned to Casterly Rock. However, she wasn't confident she could persuade him to do the same for the small falcon. Jon might object as well. She knew he had asked Stannis, the King's younger brother, if Robert might be fostered at Dragonstone. The island fortress was at least a fortnight travel from King's Landing, on account of the mountains and the necessity to cross Blackwater Bay. She suspected this would cause Lysa to vehemently disagree. Casterly Rock was less than a week by the Gold Road. Perhaps, she could garner Lysa to her side on this?

"Now that Kevan will be staying here with us, you would have Robert to look after," Cersei concluded.

"Kevan is not my only child," Loren pointed out. Dragonstone. What a miserable youth that'd be. She'd be the first to admit that Tywin wasn't a naturally genial man but Stannis his austerity was in a league all his own. He and his Lady Wife barely saw eye to eye. She wondered how their daughter, Shireen, was doing. She was of an age with Kevan. "I'll find an opportunity to discuss it with my Lord Husband."

Cersei smiled, folded her hands at her girdle and raised her chin.

  
"My Queen, Lady Loren." Ser Gnaeus Farwynd appeared in the doorway with Kevan by the ear. 

Ser Gnaeus was the fourth son of Ser Yvar Farwynd, younger brother to Lord Gylbert Farwynd of the Lonely Light. He had the long, wiry, oil black hair and hard, salt blue eyes common to the Iron Isles. His tan skin, weathered by life at sea, made him seem older than he was. He was a skilled sailor, even for Ironborn. And her friend. An unlikely friend, perhaps, but a friend nonetheless. A third brother, maybe. Though not unattractive, Gnaeus was dutiful, humourless and took his responsibilities very serious. 

"It was as you thought, My Lady. I found him roaming the Holdfast." Gnaeus let go of Kevan, who gave him a reproachful pout.

"Kevan?" Loren crossed her arms and inspected her son with a critical eye. He wore his nightshirt, hastily tucked into half-tied breeches, and nothing else. His blond hair was mused up, curls tangled in every direction imaginable.

Her son diligently avoided her gaze, his lips pressed together as he stared at his bare, scuffed feet. 

_Have you gone to the Godswood?_ Loren thought when she saw the dirt that streaked his sleeve. She had forbidden him to go there on his own. 

"Kevan, look at me—"

"Disgraceful," Cersei cut in as she came to stand beside Loren. She shook her head, her neatly arranged curls dancing on her pale shoulders. "Running around in your small clothes like a wildling’s whelp instead of a lion’s cub."

Kevan said nothing and hunched his shoulders, averting his gaze further.

"What would Lord Tywin say if he had caught you about like this?" Cersei added as if the boy were hers to reprimand. 

He stole a glance up at them from the corner of his eyes. Guilt rimmed their green depths with welling tears.

Loren was about to intercede when she noticed the dark red spots blossoming through the light cotton that covered his shoulder. _You’re hurt! Did you leave the Holdfast? Why won’t you listen!_ she thought, but said: "I think your father would be more concerned with his wounded shoulder than his state of undress, Your Grace." 

Cersei bristled and it reminded her so strongly of Tywin that it ran a pang of heartsick through her, sudden and keen as a parchment cut. It had been over a fortnight. She clenched her teeth, swallowed the emotions rising to the surface. They would return home, soon.

She took her son by his shoulder and turned him towards her. Then, she gingerly pulled the nightshirt aside. His shoulder had chafed and steadily wept blood. "I apologise for the incident, Your Grace, and my son’s dishevelled state. But we must visit Grand Maester Pycelle at once."

Cersei smiled but it hid none of the contempt in her eyes. She inclined her head minimally. "Boys."

Loren made a perfunctory bow that was scarcely more than a negligible bend at the waist before she strode away. Kevan, in turn, made the neatest, most agreeable obeisance that one might make to their royal Liege. However, the precisely executed flatter didn’t appear to please the Queen, rather the opposite: her smile evaporated to leave only displeasure. Not understanding why, Kevan hurried after his mother.

"Your Grace." Gnaeus inclined his head then followed his Liege Lord’s wife and son. As they entered Maegor’s Holdfast, four house guards, who had evidently been waiting there, fell in line behind him. 

The Grand Maester’s chambers were below the Red Keep’s rookery, beyond Maegor’s Holdfast, in one of the eastern towers of the outer curtain wall. Ser Gnaeus rapped his gauntleted fist against the braced oak of the door with enough force that even the hard of hearing would have heard, then promptly pushed it open. He entered first, followed by two house guards, then Loren and Kevan, with the last two house guards bringing up the rear.

The door opened into the a semi-circular study. It was a dusky, cluttered affair with sturdy bookcases and tall cabinets obscuring every inch of stone wall. Kevan craned his neck as he tried to see into a nearby cabinet containing marvellously deformed skulls. Priceless manuscripts laid on every horizontal surface, many of them open as if recently browsed. However, there was no trace of the old Maester. 

A serving girl came down the wooden spiral stairs at the back of the study then, fashioning her drab shawl about her shoulders. She startled terribly when she saw Loren.

"Lady Lannister." She curtsied deep and quick, her gaze glued to the wooden floorboards. She was slender with long, raven hair and brown, frightened eyes. She stole glances at the house guards, nervously drawing her shawl closer around her bare shoulders.

Loren frowned. She hadn’t expected a young woman here, though she supposed the Maester didn’t walk to the kitchens to break his fast. She seemed about her niece’s age, seven-and-ten or so. "What is your name? You are in no trouble, I promise."

"Julia." She spoke so soft it was barely above a whisper.

"Julia." Loren smiled and tried to catch her gaze. "Do you know where Grand Maester Pycelle is, Julia?"

Julia nodded. "I do, Milady."

Loren nodded. "Good. Fetch him for me."

"Yes, Milady. Right away." Julia made another curtsy and hurried back the way she’d come.

"Kevan, I’m disappointed," Loren said after the girl had left. As she turned to her son, she saw Gnaeus gesture at the house guards, who dutifully retreated to the far corners of the study. "We are the King’s guests and I was under the impression that I had been perfectly clear when I forbade you to wander the castle grounds alone."

"I’m sorry." Kevan’s tone was curt. 

"No, you’re not. You are angry. I can tell with your Father, and I can tell with you." When he avoided her gaze she took his chin and tilted it up, forcing him to look at her. "Explain to me what bothers you."

Kevan’s face scrunched up and when he spoke, his voice turned petulant. "I like to explore! Cersei is mean to me and Joff can always go as he pleases. It’s not fair."

Loren sighed. She hadn’t liked Cersei’s interference either but his response was disproportional to her words. However, she understood his sister had frightened him, and that this was where the dramatic statement came from. 

"The _Queen_ is not your mother. She may say as she deems proper and it behoves you to bow your head in grace but that is all," Loren reminded him. "And _prince_ Joffrey is twelve. You are only nine."

"Almost ten!" Kevan protested.

He was just a boy. It would be so easy for someone to hurt him. She pressed her lips together. "I do not want you wandering around the castle’s grounds alone." 

"But Ma!"

"Your Father instructed you to do as I bid you before he left, Kevan." Loren knew she was losing her patience. She didn’t mean to but she needed him to listen. "Do not make me threaten to bring this disobedience to his attention."

"But why can't I explore?" Kevan’s voice pitched and a sob crept into it as he spoke. "There are no mines here. No open slag pits. The bridge across the dry moat is covered and only a few metres high!"

Seeing her boy on the verge of tears broke her anger. The urge to pick him up and hold him close was great but he'd gotten too big for that. She adjusted her dress as she sat down on her haunches and gathered him against her instead. He threw his thin arms around her neck, his cheek against the soft satin of her bodice as she rubbed his back. She had let her fear turn into anger and she regretted it. It wasn't his fault that the world was a hostile place. 

"I’m sorry sweetbean."

Loren didn’t feel safe in King’s Landing, or even in the Red Keep. Not truly. For she knew her Lord Husband was not well-loved at court. The Sack of King’s Landing had seen to that, erasing 20 years of service in one fell swoop. At home, at Casterly Rock, she knew every soldier, every servant. Here, every face was a stranger and every stranger might hide a dagger. And Kevan? Kevan was just a little boy, running around, dodging his guards. He would make an easy target to an unscrupulous enemy keen on reprisal. 

She sighed. 

Perhaps, it was best to simply tell him the truth. He was getting old enough for such things. 

"I’m afraid."

Kevan turned his head to face his mother, his cheek against her shoulder. Instinctively, he adopted the same lowered tone. "What are you afraid of, Mama?"

Loren smiled faintly as she stroke his tousled curls. What a terrible mess her little boy had made of himself. "I am afraid bad people will try to hurt you when they see you about without your guards."

A sad frown creased his smooth brow and it made him seem older than his ten years. "Is it because they don’t like Papa?"

His words rent her heart— he must have overheard them speak. She nodded and wished he needn't know such things. "Yes."

Kevan took in her answer, his small face grave. He put his head on her shoulder again. "I miss Pa."

Loren hugged him closer. "I do too."

After a moment, a smile broke through his sorrow. "Pa will return, soon. And then, you don't have to be afraid any more, Mama."

Loren smiled for her boy’s sake. She hoped Tywin would be here for their son’s squiring but the morning was advancing.

Kevan let go of his mother. "Until Pa's here, I will protect you." 

"And how will you do that when you keep sneaking off, my gallant knight?" Loren teased and prayed to the gods he wouldn’t wander again. Kevan’s eyes grew wide but then a mischievous grin unfurled on his face. Loren pinched his freckled cheeks, she had an idea. 

"I won’t make you promise to stay with your guards because I know you can’t keep it for even an hourglass’ run."

Kevan frowned, his lips pursed into a small scowl. "I promise," he said with a child's solemn determination, as she had known he would. He was just as hard-mouthed as his father.

"Very well." Loren smoothed her skirts. "Let us make it a formal contract, then."

Kevan straightened with a judicious nod.

"You, Kevan the Younger, of House Lannister, solemnly swear to me, Lady Loren of House Lannister, Lady of Casterly Rock, that you will not wander the Red Keep proper and certainly not go beyond the red stone walls," Loren said, her tone severe and formal. "Ser Gnaeus of House Farwynd of the Lonely Light shall be the arbiter of the keeping of your oath. Should he tell me, in a day turn’s time, that you have not kept your oath, I will inform your Lord Father of the transgression and the consequences will be upon thine shoulders. However, should he come to me, in a day turn’s time, and tell me you have kept your sworn word, then we shall go to the Freeday’s market at Baker's square by the Lion gate and eat our fill in fruitcakes."

"I, Kevan of House Lannister, the second of my name, son of Lord Tywin Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock, swear this," Kevan said with all the gravitas his ten years could muster. He even went down on one knee and bowed his head.

Loren hoped their game would work, even if only for a day. She caught his face with both hands and nuzzled her nose against his. "My little lion."

If only she could carry him still, she would carry him home.

"I love you, Ma." Kevan kissed her cheek and then disentangled himself from her hold.

Loren smiled and rose.

"Which Ser will I attend when I become a squire? Do you know?" Kevan's excitement was tangible, his worries already forgotten.

She knew, of course, for she'd counselled his father while he arranged it. However, her answer was the same as it had been every previous time he had asked: "No, I have no idea."

"Who did you ask?"

The expectant look he gave her, amused her. "I asked no one."

Kevan frowned, a little wrinkle appearing across his nose. After a moment, his expression lit up with sudden insight. "Who did _Pa_ ask?"

"Knowledge comes to those who are patient, little Lord," Maester Pycelle said, his voice reedy with age. The Grand Maester was an old man with a bald, spotted head fringed by wisps of white hair that retained only the vaguest hint of their former, equally light, shade. He possessed a great snowy beard that fell over his large stomach and hid many of the dozens of links comprising his maester's chain. Julia assisted him as he took the steps down the stairs. He seemed winded and Loren wondered about his health.

"Thank you, dear. Now, run along."

Julia curtsied, lingering in its wake despite the dismissal. "Milady?"

Loren inclined her head. "You may go, Julia." 

The poor girl needn’t be told twice.

"My Lady." Maester Pycelle bowed stiffly, then turned to the tousled boy. "And what is this I hear about you having hurt yourself?"

Kevan shrugged sheepishly. "I fell."

Maester Pycelle observed him with grandfatherly disapproval in his rheumy green eyes. "Lord Luthor Tyrell once fell— right off a cliff! Horse and all, while hawking."

Kevan pursed his lips with boyish defiance. "Oddball is afraid of heights."

"And just as well!" the old maester huffed as he fussed with the boy's nightshirt. "Great heights ought to command a pony's respect as much as a man's." He pulled the collar off Kevan's shoulder and inspected the damage, then beckoned Loren. 

"Tell me, my Lady," he said as she approached. "What do you think is needed?"

Loren inclined her head, her long braids falling across her shoulder. They were weighed down by a heavy, metal link, each— one iron, one silver, one rose gold. "You’re the maester."

Maester Pycelle crooked a bushy eyebrow. He indicated the links hanging down past her waist. "Those are no frivolous hair decorations."

"If a test is what you insist on," she conceded as she sat down on her haunches and arranged her skirts about her once more.

"Humour an old teacher." 

He observed her as she inspected the wound. 

The skin had chafed deeply and blood yet wept from it. She frowned and glanced up at him. "It should have clotted by now."

"It should have." Maester Pycelle nodded. "It seems he is thin-blooded, like his Lord Father, mind."

Loren’s frown furrowed deeper. She hadn’t been aware of that and resolved to keep thousand-leaf on her person. "Knight’s milfoil," she said, recalling the name the Citadel had recorded for it. "A good rinse with off-boil water and a paste of it should force a stop to the bleeding."

Maester Pycelle made a noise of approval and shuffled to the hearth to boil a tin of rainwater. He then consulted his astrology charts. "And how will you recognise it in the field, should you need it?"

Loren conjured the unassuming plant before her mind’s eye: "A dozen small, white flowers with yellow pillar hearts. They’re clustered and surrounded by a disk of ribbed, white petals. It has a sweet scent and wasps adore it." She’d seen it by the roadside, yesterday, when she and Jaime rode along the Blackwater Rush. She would harvest a bushel on their way home. 

"Not to be confused with?" Maester Pycelle took the boiling water off the fire and waited for it to cool. 

"Hogsbane, gather that and you’ll think a dragon breathed fire unto your skin. You can tell them apart by the white hairs furring its stem." Loren pursed her lips as she searched among the old maester’s herb stock for the right bushel.

"You remember well."

She smiled, pleased to have been correct. 

Maester Pycelle took a small clod of sheep’s wool to soak up the excess and poured the water across the boy’s hurt shoulder, rinsing it thoroughly. Kevan flinched but said nothing. Once Loren found the right bushel, she took it from the ceiling and a mortar and pestle from a nearby desk. Maester Pycelle accepted the items from her and made a poultice. 

"It’s a shame young women aren’t encouraged to sew skin as much as dainty kerchiefs. I dare say, fewer children would suffer if their mothers had earned silver links." Maester Pycelle dabbed the poultice onto Kevan’s chafed shoulder, rubbing it into the wound. "That ought to stop the bleeding soo—."

"Jay!" Kevan called out, his face splitting into a grin as Ser Jaime appeared in the doorway. 

Maester Pycelle huffed at being interrupted, dressing Kevan’s shoulder.

Jaime smiled at hearing the cognomen. "We should make ready."

Kevan gave his mother an expectant look as he tugged his nightshirt straight.

"Go on, then," Loren said as she motioned towards Jaime. Of everyone, she thought, including her Lord Husband and herself, Kevan is most loved by his oldest brother. 

Kevan jumped off the stool and ran towards him. However, he abruptly stopped halfway there. He turned back to her, his expression indecisive.

Ser Gnaeus strode up to the boy and inclined his head, his tone as serious as ever: "I know I am a poor replacement for a lion, younger Lord Kevan, but in your absence, I will protect your mother as if she were my own."

Kevan gave a curt, approving nod with a meme so like his Lord Father that it made Loren smile and terrified everyone else.

"Acceptable."

Ser Gnaeus bowed as Kevan joined Ser Jaime, followed by two of the house guards.

Loren watched them go, Jaime’s hand resting on Kevan’s shoulder. He leaned towards him as they spoke in hushed, confidential tones, grins mirroring on their faces. Had he not been in the Kingsguard, he might have had a child Kevan’s age himself. Her smile faltered when she realised that was exactly how Jaime treated Kevan: like the son he would never have.

"Kevan fell?" Maester Pycelle asked, interrupting her melancholic thoughts.

"I don’t know." Loren sighed. "Ser Gnaeus caught him roaming the Holdfast this morn even though he had been forbidden to do so in no uncertain terms."

"Perhaps his Lord Father ought to dangle him over a cliff to instill a healthy respect of heights," Maester Pycelle huffed. 

"I fear he’ll merely think it a merry game."

The old maester gave her a searching look and she crossed her arms and pursed her lips. 

"A smelter’s child fell down a mineshaft last year. Poor thing didn’t survive and that was just as well, their small body was broken something awful."

Maester Pycelle nodded and the bob of his head made the links of his chain clink together. "I can well imagine, yes."

Loren shook her head in dismay. "My Lord Husband took Kevan down there and showed him. Two days later, Ser Gnaeus had to fetch him from the rafters again."

"He’s a daring boy," Maester Pycelle agreed, though it wasn’t obvious if he considered it a flaw or not. "The child takes after the parent."

Loren’s gaze momentarily flicked to the ceiling above. "Don’t tell me even an intelligent man such as yourself puts stock in the slander that I’m a bear hiding in a lion’s den." She about had it with people at the royal court finding fault with her for every ‘unLannister’ trait their son had. She was a Lannister herself - had been since before wedding Tywin - which people conveniently forgot.

"Pardon my word choice, my Lady." Maester Pycelle straightened and stroke his beard. "I meant the boy takes after the father. Lord Tywin used to be quite the clamberer himself, you know."

Loren stared at the maester, surprised despite herself. She tried to imagine it. Tywin, as a young boy, scaling the Goodtower or running the rafters above the Grand Assembly. "And his Lord Father let him?"

A disapproving frown appeared on Maester Pycelle’s crinkled face. "Lord Tytos let everyone do much of everything they wanted." She had heard more of the same from others, over the years, and she knew for a fact that Tywin considered it his Lord Father’s cardinal flaw. "He was a kind man but not a very effective Lord." Pycelle pursed his lips. "Too much kindness breeds contempt."

Loren tilted her head sideways. Perhaps what had stilled the urge to climb in Tywin, might work for their son too. "What stopped Lord Tywin from continuing to climb to his heart’s content, if not his Lord Father?" 

Maester Pycelle looked at her and she thought there was sadness in his green eyes. "A bad fall that could as well have been his last." 

Her posture slumped at his words, her shoulders flinching downward as her smile evaporated. _Was that why Tywin was unrelenting in his attempts to deter Kevan?_

"He had been the crown prince his age, or there about. I don’t know precisely what occurred but he’d fallen a ways down the western wall."

Loren stiffened. The western wall overlooked the coast and Lannisport, far below. It was a sheer drop of well over 1400 ft, except for—.

Maester Pycelle pursed his lips. "The small shelf directly below the signal beacon caught him. He took a beating on his way down and broke his sword arm in two places. He is fortunate it healed as well as it did." 

"It’s a miracle he survived." 

Loren had meant to say `didn't die’ but found she couldn’t. She tried to swallow the lump in her throat. As far as she knew, Kevan never played near the western wall. He much preferred climbing the Goodtower. She resolved to make sure the household guards patrolling the western wall kept an eye out.

"My Lady, do you feel well?"

Loren glanced up to find the old maester observing her, worry writ plainly on his old face. 

"I did not mean to disturb your humours."

She shook her head and made a dismissive gesture. "My humours are fine."

Maester Pycelle continued to regard her with concern. 

Loren braced herself. The past was the past and she would take precautions so history wouldn’t repeat itself. No doubt, she’d find Tywin already had done so. And yet, when she spoke, her neutral tone sounded forced, even to her own ears. "An experience like that no doubt sours even the strongest taste for a past time."

Maester Pycelle shook his head. "No. I do believe, even then, he already meant to surpass his Lord Father. He broke his sword arm and the recovery was slow and uncertain. I dare say, the injury put the fear of inadequacy in him more than a fear of heights."

Loren frowned. Though there was logic to his words, and truth, maybe, she didn’t like the sound of them. "It pleases me that my Lord Husband chooses to be involved with raising our boy. He cares about Kevan’s well-being and naturally doesn’t approve of him playing in dangerous places."

Maester Pycelle’s frown creased deeper, his worry replaced with a different kind of concern. He shook his bald head once more. "If I may say, I suspect the source of Lord Tywin’s fear doesn’t spring from the same parental affection as it does for you, my Lady, but rather the knowledge of what a bad fall might mean for the future of a young Heir - and his Lord Father."

Loren squinted and her soft lips turned into a hard line. It would seem the old maester’s earlier words regarding kindness proved wisdom: she’d been lenient with his familiarity and now he dared speak with contempt. She straightened and caught his rheumy gaze. 

"You may not."

And with that, she turned and stalked from the study. Ser Gnaeus and the household guards abruptly stirred and hurried to fall in line in her wake.


	3. JAIME I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter last updated/tweaked 22-07-2020

Jaime took Kevan back to Maegor’s Holdfast and the royal guest quarters. The grand, red-stone stairway to those lofty third-floor private spaces was worn from thousands of feet across hundreds of years. Carved stone pedestals draped with the battle standards of the Great Houses lined it on either side. Jaime remembered how they had borne statues of dragons on top of their ancient folds.

''Did that standard belong to King Loren?'' Kevan had halted beside a pedestal on their left hand. Amid folds of fragile, scorched crimson a familiar cloth-of-gold lion glistened despite its great age.

''It did.'' Loren the Last. The King of the Rock who had bend the knee and risen a Lord. He had lived, though, unlike plenty others. Jaime had never taken much note of the old standards, they’d been a backdrop to his daily routines as much as the throneroom’s dragon skulls had been. Yet his chest swelled with pride when he saw Kevan gingerly touch the lion and felt the chasm to the distant past bridged by that simple gesture. Loren may have been the last King, but he hadn’t been the last Lannister. ''I believe your Mother was named for him.''

''Mother wouldn’t have minded being a Queen,'' Kevan said. Jaime didn’t doubt that neither would their Father being a King. Kevan turned to him, a grin on his face. ''Helanna would have loved being a real princess.''

Jaime chuckled. ''She would have, wouldn’t she?''

They continued their way up the stairs and then down the wide corridor at the top, to the bedroom Kevan shared with their little sister. The window had been opened, the morning breeze tugging at the light curtains and chasing out the stuffy atmosphere. Fresh herbs had been woven into the rush mats, here and there, their fragrance filling the small bedchamber with the scents of summer.

''A light tunic and sturdy breeches will do,'' Jaime said as they entered. The two Lannister household guards that accompanied them filed in after, taking up positions on either side of the door. Jaime saw Helanna’s bed was empty, the sheets tucked in almost straight. She couldn’t have gone far as her toy horse sat on her pillow.

''Helanna?'' Kevan called.

''She must have gone to your Mother,'' Jaime said. Unlike Kevan, the little girl tended to stay put. Kevan looked from her bed to the open door and back, a thoughtful frown creasing his brow. ''Kevan.''

''Yes, Ser.'' Kevan dutifully went to the hutch chest at the foot of his bed. It was a sturdy, wooden affair with a raised bottom. A pride of frolicking lion cubs decorated its lid, their goldwork scuffed and dented. Kevan pushed the lid up, knocking it against the foot of the bed. Jaime waited as his little brother rummaged for clothes and put them on.

When Kevan was finished, Jaime beckoned him to follow. Once more they crossed the covered bridge over the dry moat out of Maegor’s Holdfast. ''From now on, you’ll don your armour where our sworn swords do.''

''The barracks?'' Kevan’s tone pitched as his eyes widened. He glanced at the man and woman walking behind them, dressed in the boiled leathers and red cloaks typical of their household guard. The woman winked, drawing a grin from the boy. Jaime put a hand on his shoulder, turning him in the right direction before descending the serpentine steps to the lower bailey. The Red Keep was waking up around them. Servants went about their tasks and men-at-arms set to their duties. The scent of freshly baked bread wafted towards them, drawing an emphatic growl from Kevan’s stomach.

''I wonder if there are any bread crusts left?'' Jaime said.

Delight lit up Kevan’s boyish face, dimpling his rosy, freckled cheeks. He glanced up and the morning light hit his green eyes just so, setting a sparkle to them as if flecked with gold. Jaime could barely recall the last time his Father’s eyes had smiled at him like that. 

A small hand touched his lower arm, and he flinched out of his thoughts.

''Jay?'' Kevan looked at him, and the thoughtful squint of those eyes made their likeness worse still. 

Jaime forced a smile. ''Just the thought of those crusts is enough to stun me.''

Kevan nodded, but the frown remained.

''I wonder what kind they might have?'' Jaime stifled the urge to look away. ''Maybe there’ll be cake crusts too.''

''Ma doesn’t approve of sweetcakes before breaking my fast.'' Kevan’s tone was solemn, and Jaime wanted it to go away.

''Ah, but they aren’t sweetcakes, are they? They are crusts.'' To his relief, Kevan’s frown disappeared when his words sank in, and a grin returned in its place as they walked onto the kitchen courtyard. It was busy here already. A butcher’s boy struggled with a hog intent on the garbage two young men were piling onto a cart. Three milkmaids stood giggling further along, evidently as intent on one of the young men as the hog on the trash. Porters carried caskets of Southeron wine, no doubt for the King’s unquenchable thirst. And a young girl, not much older than Kevan, stood with a basket of sweetcakes looking rather lost. No one took note of them, except a scrawny dog that knew a source of pats when she saw one.

The mutt jogged towards them, tail wagging half-mast. She had a dirty beige and white coat, spotted like a cow. One ear stood up while the other flopped down, making it seem as if she were surprised. 

''Are you hungry too, Snout?'' Kevan let her press her wet nose into his palm and then petted her head. 

Jaime wasn’t sure if the dog was a stray or belonged to a servant. He looked about the courtyard as Kevan played with the animal. Some distance away, he spotted who he’d been looking for and started towards them. ''Come with, Kev.''

Kevan patted his thigh, making the dog bark and bound after him as he ran to catch up with his big brother. 

As they approached, they overheard the royal larder steward scold a kitchen boy. The basket by his feet and the mess of quail scales and egg yolk on the cobbles made it clear what the problem was.

''—for egg-in-a-crust for the Queen herself, young man.'' Mirbelle was a short, lean, pale woman in her thrice-twenties who favoured sturdy trousers over the skirts usual for women of the kitchen staff. She reminded Jaime of the septa Loren had brought with her from Casterly Rock. 

The boy hunched his shoulders, his soft beige face filled with guilt. He couldn’t be more than six or seven. ''S’cuses ma’am,'' he peeped in the smallest of voices.

''That will not unbreak the eggs, Sten.'' Mirbelle pursed her lips. ''Mind where you put your feet from now on.''

The boy nodded vigorously.

''Run along, quickly now,'' Mirbelle said when she caught sight of the lordlings approaching her.

''Good morning, Mirbelle. Trouble afoot?'' Jaime said once they reached her. The thought of his dear sister having to forgo her favoured breakfast, amused him. Pity be upon whoever befell the misfortune of having to inform her.

''A good morn to you too, Ser.'' Mirbelle shook her head at the mess on the cobblestones. ''And none you need spend your valued time on.''

''Hello!'' Kevan popped up between the adults, drawing their attention. ''Can we have bread crusts?''

''Kevan.'' Jaime’s tone was stern but not unkind.

When Kevan stole a glance at him, Jaime indicated Mirbelle with a small flick of his chin and eyebrows. 

Kevan gave a curt nod, then turned back to Mirbelle. He drew himself up, his expression serious. ''Can we have bread crusts, please, ma’am?''

''Mayhap. We must ask Karl.'' Jaime could tell Mirbelle was suppressing a smile. She indicated a side corridor and inclined her head. ''This way, younger Lord Kevan, Ser Jaime.''

They followed Mirbelle into the warren of close-leaning buildings that formed the kitchens. Boys and girls busied to and fro, most of them a few years older than Kevan. Mirbelle led them through a dim room where women stood beating grain or sat grounding it into flour with rotary querns. They crossed a narrow alley where men loaded bushels of weed from a cart and passed a butcher’s workshop where a large man with skin as dark as his close-cropped hair slaughtered an equally large stag. 

Kevan stopped, perhaps wanting to take a closer look. Jaime grabbed his shoulder and steered him away. ''Ask Lord Tywin if he will show you, next time your parents have gone hunting.'' Kevan dropped his head but said nothing. Jaime wondered if he’d already asked and received a resounding ‘No’.

The sweet smell of sugar and the spiced scent of baking bread reached them long before they entered the bakery. An older man, thin and corded like a whip, stood before a brick oven turning fist-sized round bread that lay baking. A sleek, black cat sat near his feet, lazying in the comfortable heat right until he saw the mutt at their heels. With a hiss, the cat fled, and Snout promptly bounded after.

''Morn, Karl,'' Mirbelle said, then added: ''Ser Jaime.'' She inclined her head and left, no doubt to marshal the contingency plan for his sister’s lost breakfast. Jaime had dropped an egg-in-a-crust once on his way from the kitchens and had given it to her anyway. He smiled. That was years ago, now.

Karl glanced up, then resumed his work. ''Breadcrumbs for the princeling, yes?''

Kevan pulled his head back, a hint of a pout on his lips. ''I’m not Prince Joffrey.''

''Aren’t you?'' Karl turned the last of the bread.

Kevan shook his head vigorously. ''I’m Kevan Lannister!''

Karl wiped his hands on a rag and came towards them, sweat glistening on his ochre skin before he moped it from his forehead. His face was as lean as the rest of him and his long dark hair, tied into a neat bun, was streaked with grey at the temples. 

''You seem to have shrunk, Ser Kevan.''

Kevan’s frown acquired that particular look children got when they weren’t quite sure if you were pulling their leg.

''Let me look at you.'' 

Karl sat down on his haunches to be on eye-height with the boy and overacted a good, examining look at him. ''Ah! Now I see: the son instead of the brother. Then your height is just about right.''

Kevan beamed.

''Tell me, what can I do for the littlest Lord of Casterly Rock?''

_Are you taller than Tyrion yet, little brother? We ought to put you back to back when next we run into the Imp_. Jaime struggled to keep his expression neutral. He didn’t want Kevan to think he was laughing at him.

''Can we have bread crusts, please, mister?'' Kevan stole a glance at Jaime that reminded him of a dog expecting a pat for good behaviour. He inclined his head in acknowledgement.

''You certainly may.'' Karl beckoned Kevan and led them to the back of the bakery.

Between tall stacks of crates sat a young woman, a little younger than his niece Lynara, if Jaime had to guess. She cut baked bread into thick slices, discarding the crust from either end into a tattered arm-basket. She then wrapped the middle slices into waxed linen and packed them the crate beside her.

A red bang came loose from under her simple linen coif as she looked up. She raised her pale, flour-stained hands and indicated herself. ''Apologise me courtesies, milords.''

Kevan nodded. ''I allow it.''

Jaime suppressed his amusement at the thought of their Father’s face, had he been here. _Would you have demanded she gets up instead, little brother?_

''Most gracious, weelord.'' She reached for another bread and continued her work. ''What can Mathyld do for one so little from up so high?''

''We would like some bread crusts, maid Mathyld.'' Kevan’s tone was earnest, but his eyes looked longingly at the fresh, crispy brown crusts piled into the tattered basket. Though it lasted an instant, Jaime caught the look between the kitchen maid and baker. Hers one of displeasure and his rather quelling. She was smiling a heartbeat later, but it no longer reached her grey eyes.

''And what if I say I have none?'' Mathyld looked at Kevan as she spoke, her hands so used to their task they no longer needed her eyes to coordinate it.

Kevan frowned and looked from her to the basket with its delicious crusts, and back. ''But you do,'' he said, his tone indignant. ‘You can give us some!''

Before Mathyld could reply, Karl sat down on the edge of the table and drew his attention away from the young woman. ''A bold demand for a Lord so small. Tell me, by what right do you claim these fresh crusts?''

Kevan puffed out his chest. ''I am Kevan Lannister of Casterly Rock.''

Jaime and Karl exchanged an amused look. 

''So you claim,'' Karl said.

''So I am! Ser Jaime of the Kingsguard can vouch for me.''

Jaime nodded. ''Indeed, this is my younger brother Kevan, son of Lady Loren Lannister of Lannisport and Lord Tywin Lannister of Casterly Rock.''

''Ah, Lord Tywin?'' Karl frowned as if he had to think very deeply on who that might be. ''Warden of the West and liege lord of the Westerlands, yes?''

Kevan nodded vigorously, drawing himself up.

''Though we aren’t in the Westerlands, are we?'' A hint of teasing crept into Karl’s tone. ''Your Father is no longer Hand to the King. What claim do you have, here, outside your fief?''

Kevan’s expression screwed up in thought. Several moments passed before a grin returned to his small face. ''Queen Cersei is my big sister and King Robert is liege of the Crownlands, Storm’s End and all of Westeros. I am the King’s brother-in-law, and you must pay the bread crust tithe, to me, in his name.''

''Your Lord Father will be pleased to hear you’ve studied your lessons and came up with such a clever riposte,'' Karl chuckled and ruffled the boy’s tousled curls. He took a piece of waxed linen and put bread crusts from the tattered basket into it, stacking them end to end. 

''Here’s your tithe, little Lord.''

Kevan beamed as he accepted the bulging package.

Jaime put his hand on Kevan’s shoulder. ''Come, we must make for the barracks.''

''Ah, it's your big day, isn’t it?'' Karl said as he winked at Kevan. ''That explains the inordinate amount of fruitcakes on today’s tally.''

At the mention of fruitcakes, Kevan’s grin managed to become a little wider still.

''Go on, now, don’t make Ser Jaime wait.''

Kevan ran to Jaime and pulled his sleeve. Jaime glanced down at him and saw Kevan hold up the package to him. Jaime accepted it and meant to remark on making him carry it, but Kevan had turned and ran back into the kitchen. He climbed onto the table and scooted towards Mathyld.

''Many thanks, maid Mathyld,'' Kevan said and kissed her pale cheek before hopping off and hurrying back to him.

Karl and Mathyld watched them leave. 

''Bread crust tithe? Hah!'' Mathyld huffed as she glared at the empty doorway. ''Presumptuous brat, taking what little I have.''

''You’d do better not to say such things out loud.'' Karl shook his head. ''The boy carries no malice in his heart, but his brother might inform their father. And very, very, few things in this good world are worth garnering Lord Tywin’s ire over.''

Mathyld packed the last of the bread crusts in her basket, glaring at the dent in the modest pile. ''I don’t care.''

It reminded Karl she was barely more than a child herself. He took her by the shoulders and caught her gaze. ''There is no outcome in these things where you can win, girl. Either you go hungry a day, or you go whipped and hungry a day. Do you understand me?''

She pursed her lips, angry still, but nodded. 

Karl gave a curt nod in return. ''Better we amuse the boy, might that something good reach his father’s ears, too.''

Jaime and Kevan walked by the castle its orchard on their way to the barracks. Women chatted as they picked apples, balancing upon tall wooden ladders with baskets on their arm. Children ran among the trees, chasing a hoop.

“Can I have a bread crust?” Kevan said.

“They’re your tithe, aren’t they?” Jaime unfolded a corner of the package and held it down.

Kevan chose a large one with a thick crust. He took a bite and smiled in delight. “Don’t you want one?” he said, chewing.

“Don’t speak with your mouth full.” Jaime picked a bread crust as well and wrapped the packaged closed again. They were outstanding. Soft and warm still, their crust crunchy and spiced.

“Sorry,” Kevan said, with his mouth full.

Jaime shook his head. Had he been like that? He couldn’t remember. No doubt it had driven their Father up the nearest wall. 

The barracks were located beside the Tower of the Hand. Though Lord Tywin hadn’t been Hand for some time, the Lannister household guards still garrisoned here. Previously, they comprised a twoscore men-at-arms, there for the Queen to call upon should she require them. However, when Lord Tywin and Lady Loren had arrived last week for the tourney on Prince Joffrey’s twelfth name day, their number had quadrupled. Lord Tywin had taken less than a fifth back to Casterly Rock. The building itself was sturdy and ancient, its wooden beams black and hardened with age, its limestone walls plastered many times anew. Some said that the beams had acquired their distinct colour because Maegor Targaryen had kept his mother’s dragon Vhagar here, rather than confine her to the Dragonpit. 

The noise of the old barracks met them halfway across the training yard: the ring of swords wielded in practice matches, the tinkle of chainmail and the clang of armour plates. Talking, too, and laughter. Men in the red of House Lannister sat on benches or stood about, discussing news and sharing bawdy jokes.

“Bloody Seven, lads, my armour shrank! Again!” Ser Brynmor Royan’s roaring laughter carried above all others at his own jest. The halberdier struggled to find the right fit of his breastplate over his ample stomach. He was a man in his middle five-tens, his skin a leathery brown and his dark hair and bushy beard thoroughly greying. Though he had always been large, build like the Westerland hardwood trees, he had gotten near as wide as he was tall since last Jaime saw him. Ser Brynmor was the half-brother of Ser Lloyd Royan, the petty Lord of Westerbridge, a backwater less than a day’s ride north of Castamere.

“Should have left that last shank alone, Brynmor.” Ser Jared Swyft sat on a nearby bench, whetting his blade. He was of an age with Jaime and had been part of the Lannister Household guards stationed here at King’s Landing for as long as he could remember. Pasty, ill-proportioned and as chinless as his uncle, Jared was the younger brother of Jocelyn if Jaime recalled correctly. One of his sister’s insipid ladies-in-waiting.

“Oh, what’s one more shank on half a dozen?” Ser Brynmor guffawed. “Jousting is hungry work! No, it’s the age, you see.” He patted his belly for emphasis. “Didn’t use to get the chance to stay.”

Ser Jared’s hand stilled for a moment, his dull grey eyes almost managing a glimmer of wit as he looked up from his chore. “Age? Lord Tywin’s your age and gaunt as the spikes he loves so well despite dining better than the lot of us combined.”

“Hah! If I had a comely little wifey half my years with a rear like that, I’d be damn lean too,” Ser Brynmor snorted with amusement. “Berick, give us a hand, boy.”

“She seems happy to polish the rust off his sword,” Berick Vikary said as he assisted Ser Brynmor, holding his breastplate in place. A pock-marked seventeen-year-old with hair the colour and texture of straw, Berick had overstayed his welcome as Ser Jared’s squire for some time, evidently in no rush to be his own man. “What’s his excuse to be choleric with a keen lady warming his bed?”

Ser Brynmor leaned towards the younger man, miming a confidential tone. “Imagine what he was like before.”

“She ain’t no kitty-cat. I saw her make the Queen feel her claws at the tourney, had retracted them before anyone else saw ‘em, too,” Jared said.

“She’s taken right well to the reigns, she has,” Ser Brynmor agreed with a chuckle. He fastened the straps of his breastplate with effort. The way the leather had been stretched thinner where the clasps sat a testament to their struggle to confine his bulk being anything but recent. “Those of the Westerlands as much as our benign Liege’s.” 

Ser Jared made a derisive noise and resumed his chore. “I bet she rides him sorer than a courier horse and he has nary a say in it.”

“Be that envy, I hear?” Ser Brynmor gave him a shove as he reached for his surcoat, emblazoned with the silver bridge on blue of House Royan. “If seeding her fields gets too much for him, he only need say and I will provide aid to our Liege in his time of need as is my sworn duty as his loyal banner.”

“He’d sooner die trying, tenacious prick,” Ser Jared scoffed.

A tug at his sleeve as they approached diverted Jaime’s attention away from the conversation. He glanced at Kevan, who had halted. A thoughtful frown creased his small face as he chewed the last of his bread crust. “Why is Mother’s butt important?”

Articulated reason flew out the window the second the question hit Jaime’s ears and his thoughts sped back to the tourney of their own accord. She’d worn that dress, the one with the lions salient and the cloth of gold panels winking between the crimson folds of its skirts as she walked. He distinctly remembered the way the sunlight had caught the expensive cloth as it shifted into view with the movement of her rear. He tried to banish the image from his mind’s eye. _What in the Seven was he supposed to say to that? _

“Ser Jaime!” Ser Jared’s hail freed him of the need to answer the question, for now. “Been a while since you graced us here.”

“I can’t seem to get the red dye to stick to this cloak,” Jaime said with good humour as he gave his white cloak a tug. The two men clasped each other’s shoulder in greeting.

“Kill brigands more and guard fat kings less.” Ser Jared grinned. His gaze fell on Kevan then. “There’s the little knight of the hour. Old Bryn wasn’t lying when he said you came out a billet of the old lion’s mold. That’s right lucky for your pretty mama, what with how quick you came, eh?”

Kevan’s frown creased deeper and he pursed his lips in an unpleasantly familiar manner. “Lady Loren,” he corrected, his tone quiet. 

Ser Jared flinched, Jaime caught it, though the knight tried to conceal it. Ser Jared ruffled Kevan’s curls. “Apologies, little Lord.” 

“Is this proud armour I saw yours, then?” Ser Brynmor smiled his wide, genial smile. He indicted the distinctly child-sized armour on a nearby armouring stand. “I thought it’d be a shade short for Ser Jaime.”

Kevan’s eyes widened. “Real armour?”

Jaime nodded. “You’ll be a squire, no longer a child. You’ll need real armour.”

“T’is a fine little suit,” Brynmor said as he made way for Kevan, who had eagerly come forward to see.

Jaime agreed. With its red lacquered lamellae and matte gilded sunburst rondels it was unmistakably a child-sized copy of their Father’s armour and by the look of it every inch as finely made as the original.

“Lord Tywin spared no expense in seeing you properly armoured up,” Jared said.

Kevan beamed, never taking his eyes off the brand new armour sitting on the too large armour stand.

“Aye, that must have cost a pretty penny.” Ser Brynmor inspected it with a critical eye. The Royans were petty Lords, at best, but the coal mine on their modest fief had brought them some wealth carting the black stones to Casterly Rock’s smelters and he was therefor not unfamiliar with steel grades.

“It comes from our own forges,” Jaime replied. Tailyn, Loren’s queer sister, had overseen its forging. He had known she maintained the arms and armour of his Father, Loren and his uncles and had therefor assumed she must be a skilled blacksmith. The fine quality of the small armour before him confirmed that conclusion. _How long did you work on that with Father breathing down your neck? Rather you than me, Tay._

“Still, good steel is good steel, and craftsmanship,” Ser Brynmor said.

_Father would still forge that little armour if it needed the last scrap of Valyrian steel in the known world_, Jaime thought.

“Can I put it on?” Kevan’s hopeful tone made Jaime smile.

“You have to put it on.” Jaime had barely said it or a whoop of cheer left the boy. 

Kevan clambered onto the bench and lifted his arms up. “Ser Brynmor, assist me, please!”

“You almost have it down,” Brynmor said. “Now say it like you mean it, serious as the Grey Plague.”

Kevan’s face screwed up into a frown. When he spoke again, he dropped his tone an octave and sharpened it to a verbal point. “Ser Brynmor. Assist me.”

“Yes, my Lord.” Brynmor inclined his head, suppressing a smile as he took the small chestplate off the stand. “Much better. Your Lord Father would approve.”

Jaime didn’t doubt it. He wondered if Lord Tywin had arrived yet. He must have.

Kevan grinned at the knight, stretching his arms higher as the chestplate was fitted around him.

“Hold in that fat fruitcake belly of yours,” Ser Brynmor jested as he fastened the equally little arming straps in place. Jaime watched the household knight armour Kevan with practised ease. He must have familiarised himself with the small suit. It was atypical in its fastenings, more sophisticated, like their Father’s.

Kevan gave Brynmor an askance look, though he sucked in his stomach regardless. “You’re fatter than me, Ser Brynmor.”

“Me? Fat? I’m slender as a breeding sow.”

Once armoured, Jaime and Kevan made for the Red Keep’s throne room where the squiring ceremony would take place. A dozen household guards, including Ser Brynmor, Ser Jared and Berick, followed them as a honour guard. Kevan walked beside Jaime, pretty as a picture in his new armour. Under his arm, Kevan held the smallest of great helms. It was crested with a lion, like his Father’s. However, his was a seated, ruby-eyed cub with its first tufts of mane, a paw lifted in defiance.

When they entered the throne room, Jaime was surprised by the amount of people there. At a glance, he recognised several Houses of the Crownlands, both great and small. A banquet had been laid out upon long tables with crimson runners and golden tassels, rampant lions embroidered on their ends. The centrepiece dish was a roasted dragon fashioned from what looked like the rump of a suckling pig and the front of a capon with the wings of larger fowl sewn on. A glazed bread lion cub sat triumphant beside it. Minstrels performed on a dais beside the Iron Throne. It towered over the gathered crowd, its looming shadow not quite dispelled by the festivities. Jaime avoided looking at the empty seat.

''Ser Jaime Lannister and Kevan Lannister, the Younger, of House Lannister of Casterly Rock!'' A herald in the yellow and black of House Baratheon announced as they entered. King Robert had insisted he arrange and pay a fete for his littlest brother-in-law in honour of his squiring. Though it would seem he hadn’t hewn particularly close to Loren’s acquiescence of ‘a small feast will more than suffice’. It was small only by the King’s usual standards. The treasury had been overflowing with gold when Lord Tywin resigned but the new King’s extravagance had beggared the realm. \textit{Do you know you’re footing the bill for this, too, Father?} Jaime thought. No doubt, Lord Tywin had realised it the moment he clapped eyes on this fine spectacle. Though Jaime saw neither his Father nor lady Loren among the gathered crowd. They must have retreated after his arrival and would soon come down. It was still early.

As they walked down the hall, a woman in a blue and argent gown came towards them. She was tall with deep-set eyes amid porcelain skin and raven hair. It took him a moment to recognise her: Jocelyn Bywater, sister to Ser Jacelyn Bywater, an officer of the City Watch. She wasn’t stunning, but there was something about her. The Bywaters had a modest manse up on the High Street near the Old Gate, in the older and stately part of King’s Landing. Jocelyn lived there with her lady-in-waiting. He’d forgotten her name, a dainty Dornish thing of sweet courtesies. The two maids had been close friends for years.

''My Lords.'' Jocelyn courtesied. Kevan made a neat bow in turn. ''May I be the first to offer my congratulations and a humble gift?''

Kevan glanced at Jaime, who inclined his head. \textit{Go on, little brother. These are the shenanigans our Father has so diligently heeled you for. Show them you’ve learnt, even if they aren’t here yet.}

''You may,'' Kevan said.

Jocelyn beckoned forth a servant, who carried a pillow covered by a silk kerchief with the Bywater arms of argent fish above alternating bars of argent and azure. The servant bend his tall frame deeply and humbly to hold it at eye-height for Kevan. Jocelyn whisked the cloth aside with a flourish of her painted nails. Upon the pillow laid a castle-forged dagger, its wooden hilt inlaid with an enamel lion rampant and its keen edge catching the light. Beside it, a scabbard of tooled leather.

_A fine gift, no doubt forged to order._ Jaime thought as he watched Kevan pick it up and weigh the blade. _That will have cost Jacelyn his pay twice over._

''Do give your Lady Mother my best wishes, and those of my brother, Ser Jacelyn,'' Jocelyn replied, lightly stressing her brothers name.

Kevan gave a curt nod. ''Many thanks, miss Bywater.'' As she left, Kevan turned to Jaime. ''Can I wear it?''

''You may.'' Loren might not approve of live steel, but Kevan was nearly ten and the dagger but a small blade. Jaime didn’t see any harm in it. Berick helped Kevan secure the scabbard properly to his belt as a rotund man in his middle fourties with a whisp of a woman at similar age came towards them. They were followed by a young girl approximately Kevan’s age. She wore a splendid crimson dress with red on red sealions. For an instant, Jaime thought them relatives of Loren’s that he hadn’t met before. However, when they properly stood before them he saw it wasn’t the golden sea cat of Lannisport that greeted him.

''Lord Clerrance Manning,'' the man said with a bow so deep and fluid you’d wonder how a man his circumference managed to bend that well at the waist. ''And my dear lady and daughter.''

_Manning of Clearwater Breach. A fortified watchtower, and that was being generous._ Jaime wondered why they were so keen. The old tower keep sat in an inlet of Blackwater Bay, due south of King’s Landing, at the mouth of the Wendwater river and the edge of the Kingswood. A bay within the bay. In older times, it had been a harbour point but had long since been overshadowed by King’s Landing. 

''We too, humbly seek to honour,'' Lord Clerrance said. As on cue, the girl who must be their daughter stepped forward from between her parents, carrying a polished wooden box. She made a careful courtesy, holding the box level as she did. She smiled very sweetly when Kevan bowed in turn. Jaime didn’t like the smug look on her Lord Father’s face.

''My name is Florance and I am honoured to meet you and present this gift, Lord Kevan of Casterly Rock.''

Berick appeared at their side once more, this time to accept the box. He sat down on his haunches, level with both children. Florance showed how to open the box. Within it sat a toy model of a trading ship, finely crafted. It had two little flags on the stern. One, clearly the pennant of House Lannister of Lannisport. The other, no doubt of House Manning, with its proud, red sealion on argent.

''Can it sail?'' Kevan’s tone was serious, as if discussing a real vessel. He gave Florance a look that expected an answer, rather than her Lord Father.

''Certainly, milord. It’ll float where you will, its sails set proper.'' Florance indicated points where the miniature riggings might be adjusted.

''I like it,'' Kevan decided with a smile as he closed the box. Berick rose but kept standing beside them.

''We are humbly pleased you do, my Lord,'' Lord Manning said. ''We are most honoured you allowed us your time. Come, Florance.'' They all but bowed their way back into the crowd before turning and leaving. As they left, Jaime noticed Kevan’s gaze trailing the young Lady’s. She stole a look over her shoulder at them.

''Maybe Mother can invite them for supper, some time.'' Kevan glanced up at him.

_Not bloody likely,_ Jaime thought. _Your Mother will run them off the grounds faster than our Father can hang them for the insult_. He better find a moment to inform Loren. Unwilling to dunk Kevan’s mood, he said: ''You never know.''

The woman that approached them next, Jaime knew well. It was Lady Tanda Stokesworth and her daughters, and what must be her son-in-law Ser Balman Byrch, a renowned tourney jouster. No children with them. How long had Lady Falyse and Ser Balman been married? Two-years-and-ten? There’d been some noise when Elvia Lantell, a maiden cousin of Loren’s, had a bastard boy. It had put a mark of Loren’s one-score-and-ten nameday tournament and overshadowed her own daughter’s birth. 

''Ser Jaime, little Lord Kevan.'' Lady Tanda’s tone was genial and familiar, as if she were their grandmother. In keeping with that, she carried a delicate golden basket with hard candy. Caramel drops from far Essos. Easily more expensive than the basket they sat in. Some of Kevan’s favourite, too. Jaime eyed her and then Lollys. Right away, Lady Tanda ushered her youngest daughter forward. It was no secret his Father didn’t want him in the Kingsguard. _Would you agree to the match if you learned Cersei schemed to bleach my cloak to white?_ Jaime thought, amused, as he regarded Lollys. _A sharp lesson, indeed_.

Kevan’s bow was stiff and his stern expression made him seem older than he was. Jaime didn’t think his little brother had met the Stokesworths before but it seemed he’d caught the scent of incompetence cleaving to them.

''Our beloved Queen once mentioned that you were very fond of these,'' Lady Tanda said. _Cersei would sooner suck a steer than suffer your company._ Lady Tanda held the basket out to Kevan, who didn’t move a muscle, every inch their Father as he watched her face fall. Berick accepted the gift in his stead. 

''How is your dear Lady Mother? And your uncle?'' Lady Tanda enquired.

''Lady Loren is well.'' Kevan’s tone was measured, reserved. Kevan had many uncles; some as old as his Father, some younger than Jaime himself. However, the boy seemed to know precisely which uncle was meant: the unwed one. ''Uncle Tymen is sailing the trade routes north.''

Lady Tanda didn’t give up yet. ''When might he return?''

Kevan remained silent. 

_Trade routes north? Did your Mother say that?_ It sounded like something Loren would say to as presumptuous a question as this.

''I would love to invite him for dinner.'' Lady Tanda added as she clasped her hands together. ''Lollys would love to hear his tales of bravery and adventure, wouldn’t you, Lollys?''

Lollys took a timid step forward and courtesied to Kevan. ''I would, very much, my Lord.''

Jaime struggled to hide his amusement. _No doubt he’s sticking his sword in every bear and wolf he comes across, and them in him. Mighty fine tales for a lady, those will make._

Kevan observed them and the silence stretched on.

''It was a delight to meet you, Lord Kevan,'' Lady Tanda said as she took her daughters by the arm and slunk away. Jaime fondly imagined them as curs with their tails thoroughly between their legs.

Kevan’s gaze wandered to the great wooden doors of the throne room before he turned to Jaime, his hands clasped behind his back. ''I didn’t know I would receive gifts.''

''You did well,'' Jaime said. _Except for that slip of a girl_, he thought. Kevan wouldn’t be a boy forever. The look of budding interest on his small face had been unmistakable.

Kevan turned to Ser Brynmor next. ''Ser Brynmor, find Lady Florance Manning. I should like to spend time with her.''

_Damn it, there you had it. Think quick, Jaime._ Jaime’s gaze hunted around the room. _Lord Guncer Sunglass. Jenia Buckwell. Ser Trystane Velaryon. Where by the Seven were his Father and Loren?_

''Can do, Lord Kevan,'' Ser Brynmor said and turned to look for the girl.

Jaime considered outright overruling his younger brother’s command. Lord Tywin disapproved of public dissent. Jaime caught sight of Ser Barristan Selmy just as he was about to countermand. He raised his hand to hail the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. ''Look, Kevan. Ser Barristan is here as well.''

Kevan’s eyes lit up as he turned to look. Jaime caught Brynmor’s gaze and shook his head, barely more than a chin movement. The household guard inclined his head and fell back in line.

''Ser Barristan!'' Kevan called and waved. He looked back at Jaime with a broad grin.

Jaime smiled, pleased with himself. _Not quite big enough yet for girls to eclipse everything else_. He should tell Loren. Let her handle their Father.

''Ser Jaime, younger Lord Kevan.'' Ser Barristan was a tall man, his long hair and neat beard cloud white since as long as Jaime could remember. His eyes were pale blue as a summer sky, his face creased with age. Though he was only a few years older than Lord Tywin, it made it seem more. The latter’s bushy side whiskers yet retained the ochre hue they’d always had. Though he’d kept his head clean shaven ever since his golden mane had started to thin. A problem Ser Barristan evidently didn’t face.

Kevan’s bow was precise. ''Ser Barristan.''

''You look ready for battle.'' Ser Barristan smiled as he looked Kevan up and down, appraising his new armour.

''I wish there was a battle. Nothing has happened in an age.'' Kevan’s lip puckered as he fingered the pommel of his new dagger.

Barristan and Jaime shared a look. ''Take it from an old man who’s seen one too many,'' Ser Barristan said. ''T’is a poor thing to hope for.''

Kevan’s brow furrowed, his gaze moved to the throne room’s massive doors. ''Father says wars are necessary.''

''He’s not wrong,'' Ser Barristan agreed. ''Sometimes, they are, but they are a sad occasion, always.''

''Yes, smallfolk go hungry,'' Kevan said after a moment. ''Or die.'' 

Kevan’s frown creased deeper at Ser Barristan’s curt nod. Jaime didn’t like how Kevan’s somber mood lingered. _I wanted you to distract him, not depress him_, Jaime thought. ''A diligent squire might win honour at a tourney,'' Jaime said.

Kevan’s eyes widened and the eager sparkle that Jaime loved so well returned. ''Mother’s nameday is in less than a year.''

Lord Tywin hosted fetes at Lannisport for all their namedays but across the past decade, Lady Loren’s had gained pre-eminence. It was popular with the smallfolk for its public banquet and rich pageantry, and the jousts held in her honour attracted knights from across the Seven Kingdoms. It also featured a grand melee for squires.

''A tight training regime will see you do well in it,'' Ser Barristan said. Jaime had no doubt that their Father had already drawn up a schedule.

''Can you teach me?'' Kevan’s voice was full of hope as he looked up at the old knight. 

''Kevan.'' Jaime caught his gaze.

''I’m flattered, don’t worry, Ser Jaime.'' Ser Barristan gave Kevan’s shoulder a squeeze. ''Though very busy, as well.''

Kevan’s face fell. ''Please?'' The shimmer appearing in his eyes reminded Jaime that he was only nine, and that their Father had not quite heeled children’s tendency to beg out of him.

''I have a gift instead, if you’ll accept it,'' Ser Barristan said.

Kevan’s expression lit with curious surprise. It seemed to Jaime that he’d forgotten all about training at the mention of a gift from his hero. 

Ser Barristan produced a small pouch, its once rich velveteen worn with age. There was a design on the cloth though Jaime couldn’t tell what it was. Scales, maybe? Barristan emptied it unto his palm with care. A pendant fell from it, followed by a thin, discoloured chain. ''It’s not much but I like to think it served me well,'' Ser Barristan said as he lowered his hand to give it to Kevan.

_Not much?_ Jaime stared at it. On the knight’s palm laid a strip of Valyrian steel, its vertical edges irregular. Fitted crookedly in it sat a square-cut ruby, larger than a thumbnail and alight with the firelight around them. _That is a princely gift, no matter how poor its fitting_, Jaime thought. It would easily pay for this modest fete five times over. _Surely, he knows?_

Kevan touched it gingerly, a fingertip at a time. ''It’s pretty.''

Jaime couldn’t tear his gaze away. Its pidgeon blood luster sparkled with promise. It was almost as large and fine as the twin rubies set in the lioness pendant or his father’s great helm. _It probably came from a hilt or scabbard, by the look of those jagged edges_. Jaime tried to imagine the whole piece it might have come from. Small wonder it had been pried into pieces.

''That it is.'' Ser Barristan smiled. He went down on a knee to hang the pendant around Kevan’s neck. ''Perhaps, it is old wives’ tales, but I like to think it has kept me on the lucky side of safe a few times.''

Kevan pressed his chin against his chest to be able to see the pendant. ''Don’t you need it?''

''I am an old man, Kevan. I’ve lucked out enough. You are young yet, with many a danger before you.''

Jaime squinted. From anyone else, that would have been a threat. However, the old knight smiled still and seemed genuine enough. His stance was open, not just to Kevan but to Jaime, too. Knelt as he was, there was no way he could draw his blade before Jaime was at his throat.

Kevan took the pendant in his hand, watching it wink as he held it upside down, tilting it this way and that. ''Rubies are Pa’s favourite earthbones.''

Kevan’s understatement twitched the corners of Jaime’s lips up. He remembered well the fool that had given Lady Loren a fine diamond pendant when she wed his Father. Lord Tywin had rather famously remarked that 'the only use for diamonds was to see if rubies were real.'

A curious look appeared on Ser Barristan’s weathered face at the boy’s choice of words but he didn’t ask. ''Wars may be fought for diamonds but the ruby is the king of precious stones.'' He mused up Kevan’s hair as he rose. ''A gemstone suited to a lion, I should think.''

Kevan puffed out his chest, the ruby gleaming in its queer setting. The dark reds and muted gold of his armour seemed to funnel all light to it.

''It looks splendid on you, little Lord,'' Ser Barristan added.

The heavy croak and scrape of massive wooden doors sounded above the murmur. Kevan glanced up as the throne room’s great doors sighed open. His face lit up as he turned to them, and fell so abruptly and completely a moment later that Jaime felt his heart plummet into his guts. He turned just as the herald called:

''His Splendid Majesty, King Robert Baratheon, First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Roynar and First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm. Her Grace, Queen Consort Cersei Baratheon, First of Her Name, Light of the West and Grace of the Realms.''

Jaime tuned out as she started listing the children, all their titles, and no doubt a score of prominent courtiers after, and turned his attention back to Kevan. Kevan’s shoulders sagged, his gaze dropping to the floor as his hand fell from his dagger to hang listlessly alongside him.

''Kevan?''

When Kevan looked up moist gathered around his green eyes, making their light flecks wink as finely as the ruby around his neck. The dissonance of seeing tears gather in his Father’s eyes twisted Jaime’s gut. He pushed the discomfort away for his little brother’s sake. Kevan was barely ten. Jaime put a hand on his slim shoulder, giving it a firm squeeze. _His little brother_. ''He’ll be here.''


	4. TYWIN I

Lord Tywin strode out onto Casterly Rock's twilit inner bailey and into the pouring rain. Down the narrow way between the beacon and the western wall, he went, ignoring the late summer storm. The watchman sat huddled leeward of the twelve feet stack of soaked firewood. No flame but wildfire would light it now. The wind seized Tywin's thick crimson cloak as he came around the beacon, throwing the heavy damask about like a living thing. He ignored it like he ignored the rain pelting his face, seeping into his golden side-whiskers and drenching his quilted burgundy doublet. He held a square of fabric in his fist, water running in rivulets between his knuckles to soak into the faded embroidery. He went up the stone steps, worn concave down their middle from centuries of sentries doing the same. The western wall was the tallest of Casterly Rock's myriad defences, the drop down to sea-level sheer safe for a small ledge.

Tywin stood upon the western battlements and surveyed his storm-torn domain. Far below, the lighthouse of Lannisport cast its fire across the raging black sea, guiding its fishermen home. The storms were ever wild at the tail-end of summer. It would be wet, and then it would be cold. His gaze turned north, to the Iron Isles. The beacon at Faircastle was dark, even the Ironborn had deemed to stay ashore. But summer was drawing to a close, the lean months of winter approaching. _They will come before long_.

Lannisport huddled amid the rugged hills, shrouded in a curtain of grey. A dismal port along a desolate stretch of limestone cliffs and shingle beach, its shoulders in brooding old-growth and its toes in dark tidal waters. But Tywin knew how it could be, when the wretched weather rolled back and all glistened in the morning light. White shores, before a colourful port. And beyond, a green cloak of broadleaf forest. The limestone crest of the Rock pearlescent under a swift sunrise, setting fire to its gleaming battlements. The Westerlands were his home, and always would be.

“My Lord.”

Tywin ignored the call as his gaze wandered inland, to the mountains and the Golden Tooth, just visible behind the old quatrefoil keep. Beyond them, the deltas of the Riverlands, the forested Crownlands and the supposed jewel in Westeros' benighted crown: King's Landing. A presumptuous name for a hive of intrigue and petty crime. Yet Tywin's gaze lingered, even though he much preferred viewing Lannisport at dawn. Kevan would be a squire, soon. A boy of ten and a child not for much longer. He could remember the day he'd held his son as a mere babe as if it were yesterday. Small and blond and freckled, like his mother. Tywin smiled. He'd make a fine Lord, one day.

“Tywin.”

The rains were becoming more frequent. Tywin could smell it, the vague scent of damp never entirely leaving these days. It lingered in the wood and draperies, rotted rushes within the day. They marked the change in the season. Winter would be upon them before long. Not a cold snap, like the frost spell out of nowhere six years ago, which the smallfolk called ‘little winter’. But a real winter, one that would last years rather than nine moons. Tywin pursed his thin lips. Kevan would be fine, he was a vigorous child. Like himself, Kevan had been born towards the close of winter, braving its tail-end as a babe. Tywin clenched his fist, squeezing water from the strip of cloth he held. They'd had to bury Kevan’s baby brother together with the uncle the babe had been named for. Tywin did not miss his brother Tygett.

“Brother.”

_‘Brother!’_ Tywin could hear Gerion’s flippant call and laughter as if he’d never left. His gaze returned to the choppy sea and the shrouded lands beyond the horizon. Gerion was out there, somewhere. He ought to have been born a Lannisporter. ‘Look to the sea’ their words were. Tywin clenched his jaw. Gerion would return one day, laughing and swinging Brightroar in jest, mocking their concern as he swaggered down the docks. Laughing, always laughing. Tywin’s gaze lingered. _Make haste, little brother. Winter will soon get into the sea._

Tywin had never thought he must steer their House through another winter. He’d always believed Jaime would, considered even that Tyrion might. _Jaime_... Tywin’s gaze found the pass across the Golden Tooth, the first rays of a watery dawn lighting the jagged peak to honour its name. In a few days, Kevan would be a squire. _One more winter and Kevan will be old enough to do it in my stead_, Tywin thought. He could do one more. His grip on the cloth tightened. He must. It would be his sixth winter. It would be his last.

Ser Kevan reached for his older brother’s face with both hands and turned it towards himself. “Is there any particular reason you are out here in the rain, trying to catch consumption?”

Tywin glanced at the beacon. The watchman was gone.

Kevan Lannister was a large man of modest stature with broad shoulders and a thick waist. In that, he took after their father. “He was just doing his job, Tywin.” 

Tywin pursed his lips. Perhaps, not only in that. “His job is watching the beacon at Faircastle.”

Kevan sighed. “Come inside, take a hot bath. Lady Loren will have both our heads adorning these battlements if she returns home to find you bed-ridden.”

At the mention of his wife, Tywin’s gaze returned to the Golden Tooth. Kevan’s squiring was eight days hence. The ride down the gold road would take six days, even at haste. Loren wouldn’t rest beside him for another fortnight.

“Come on.” Kevan put a hand against his brother and Lord’s back, urging him towards the keep. 

Tywin let him.

The venerable keep of Casterly Rock was old and known precisely so, as the ‘Old Keep’. Its correct name, if ever it had one, was lost to time. It squat on the westernmost tip of the limestone promontory, the summit forming a natural motte. Erected from pale, quarry-faced ashlar, delved right beneath its ancient feet, and crowned with smooth red shingles, the keep sat quiet and dignified in the storm. The Casterly’s had built it in the Dawn Age, but its four-leaf clover shape suited the person that had winkled it from them: Lann the Clever, not for no reason, also named Lann the Lucky. Some considered him a son of Floris the Fox, daughter of Garth Greenhand, but Tywin was not a man who put stock by tales that banked on fancy for veracity alone. For that matter, he doubted their eponymous golden-haired ancestor had existed at all.

“Why have you not left for King’s Landing?” Reproach edged Kevan’s tone.

Tywin put his hand to the pale stone as they entered, the seaward face of the Old Keep worn smooth by the unrelenting gales. It was cold and slick from the rain. “No one wants me there.”

Men-at-arms in the red cloaks of their household guard stood inside, sheltering from the dreadful weather. Tywin ran their faces past his recollection, putting names to each as he glared at them in turn. _Ser Harren. Donyllo. Briella. Ser Marreo. Selvin_. Young Selvin glanced away as Tywin caught her gaze, her sallow cheeks tinging red._ So, you were on watch_. 

“I dare say your wife would like you to be there.” Kevan pulled the hood of his mantle down and ran a hand through his short, blonde hair. Water dripped from his close-cropped beard.

“Loren knows better than to wish for foolish things.” Tywin made no effort to prevent the trail of water he tracked onto the flagstones. The household guards closed the crimson doors behind them with a boom, and he dismissed them with a flick of his hand. Ser Marreo and Briella took up posts by the door while the others retreated to the guardrooms beyond.

“Don’t tell me you honestly believe she’s safer without you nearby?” Kevan pressed. He put a hand to the limestone column as they ascended the spiral stairs.

“Loren can handle herself.” Tywin scowled. She couldn’t uncover what they needed to know with him around. The tourney of his grandson Joffrey’s name day had shown the sorry truth of that.

“I’m not suggesting she can’t.”

Tywin paused. “Then what are you suggesting?”

Kevan squared his shoulders, filling out the narrow stairwell. “Ride for King’s Landing. You can still make it.”

Tywin started back up the stairs. “Loren can handle herself.”

“What about my little nephew? Your _son_? What about Kevan? You don’t think he wants you to be there on the most important day of his young life?”

Tywin’s jaw moved, but he didn’t speak. When he had left King’s Landing a fortnight past, his young son had asked if he’d make it back in time for his squiring. He’d given the boy a non-answer. His mother needed as much time as he could carve out for her.

“You can still make it,” Kevan insisted. “Ride out now. Ride fast. Send a raven ahead.”

They emerged into what had once been the Casterly’s great hall, long since turned into a solar. It was dominated by four paired limestone fireplaces, protruding proudly from the walls on either far end of the hall. The seaward side comprised seven tall archways with leonine capstones, the middle one twice the size of any of the others. They were shuttered with bloodwood from the Summer Isles now, but on fairer days they provided a view of the sunset sea like no other. Across, a semicircle dais marked where the high table had once been. The earliest Kings of the Rock had carved out the Grand Assembly, and they had moved their court there. Comfortable couches, upholstered chairs and even a claw-footed divan from far Qarth now occupied the place of honour. Among them, distinctly down-sized but equally well-made furniture. An assortment of wooden toys laid spread between them, including a gnarled, flaking dragon whose wings would flap when tugged along on its wheels. It had been a gift from King Aerys Targaryen, many years ago. The dais was flanked by a pride of true-to-life limestone lions. The roaring one had a crimson table runner thrown across its back, like a make-shift saddle.

Overlooking the solar from that fair vantage point hung the life-size portrait of a noble lady resplendent in crimson and gold. Regal and arresting, she sat frozen in time upon a divan just like the one standing before her likeness. Her dress was of luxurious, red damask and edged with ermine, the fine needlework and delicate fur beautifully rendered in paint. A golden pendant, shaped into a stalking lioness with ruby eyes, graced the curve of her pale collar bones. And many rings, crowned with pearl and ruby and a crest of two lions entwined, sat around her long, slender fingers. Her gentle, oval face was framed by hair as burnished gold that fell well past her waist in tender waves. It seemed in paint as silken as it had been in life. Her emerald eyes smiled at him.

_Joanna_. Tywin paused in front of it, as he always did. Loren had hung it here, during the Little Winter. _‘It saddens me to think that she can only ever hear our little cubs from her dark bed below,’_ she had explained. _‘Now she can see them.’_

“Brother?” Kevan’s hand rested on his shoulder. There was a question in his sea-green eyes, but he did not ask it.

Tywin shrugged his touch and turned abruptly from the portrait. It was paint on panel and merely shaped into the likeness of his late wife. It couldn’t see or feel any more than the old tree in the Stone Garden could. He shook his head. A streak of bear-blood ran through the Lannisport cadet branch of his House and, some times, he could feel the breath of the Old Gods roll off Loren like a half-recalled memory of the Long Night. Such as when she spoke of portraits keeping watch over their offspring. He pursed his lips and shook his head._ Hrm. No_.

“Kevan is the first boy to squire at nine since Aegon the Unlikely,” Tywin said, not without pride. He’d been right to decide his son page with his brother, for his namesake had taught him well. He ought to have insisted on the same for Joffrey.

“He is eager to become a knight of great renown and live up to his Lord Father’s fame,” Kevan said as they climbed one of the twin stairs flanking the portrait.

Good, Tywin thought. His son would be Hand to a worthy King, one day. He would make it so. The tourney had been the perfect opportunity for Cersei to showcase Joffrey’s qualities to his future realm, but she hadn’t. A frown creased his brow. It wasn’t like her not to preen.

“He reminds me of you, you know, when we were younger,” Kevan added, stirring Tywin from his thoughts.

Tywin’s eyebrows rose, amused. “Does he, now?”

“Mhm. The intensity with which he sets to mastering something new.”

Tywin glanced at his brother from across his shoulder as they ascended the stairs. _You don’t exactly lack in tenacity yourself, Kevan_, he thought. Kevan had hounded him about King’s Landing for four days now. Genna, too. He wondered when his siblings would resolve to gang up on him.

“You remember that?” It had been a goodly while ago. He’d been twelve, or so. Maester Hrothan was no longer with them. He regretted it now, for Creylen was not nearly as competent. They ought to demand a substitute from the Citadel. Or, perhaps, Loren could winkle Maester Ainsley from Lannisport. 

“You hammered the quintain through the dead of night for a fortnight,” Kevan said as they stepped into a smaller solar, though not less sumptuously furnished than the hall below. A fireplace, its limestone arch fashioned into twin lions, protruded from the oak panelling and dominated the secluded chamber. The dawn crept in through the diamond-paned bay window, filling the room with warm, filtered light that set sparkles to the gold-thread in the red samite hangings. “I dare say we all remember.”

Tywin had met Ainsley on occasion, a diligent man and an expert on the histories of the Westerlands. Tion sorely needed a proper tutor and currently wanted nothing more than to learn the origin and purpose of every pebble and peasant in their fief.

“I am glad it healed well, in the end,” Kevan added.

Tywin crossed the solar and strode into his study, a private office where he might retire and work in peace, undisturbed by courtiers or claimants. He flexed his right arm. “I am still not as proficient dexter as I should like.”

Kevan lingered at the door, his hands behind his back and his gaze on an elegant painting he had beheld a hundred times before. It depicted Lord Tywin, standing stately complacent holding his then 2-year-old son Kevan. Lady Loren stood beside him, a delicate hand in the crook of his elbow. The finely rendered sparkle of amused satisfaction in her soft gaze betrayed that whoever had supervised the painting of her, knew her well. The same could not be said for Casterly Rock. The picturesque landscape behind them evidently meant to depict their family seat but had clearly been rendered by someone who had never seen it.

Tywin made for the cluttered, dark wooden desk dominating his study. He produced a small, bronze key from the pouch concealed at his hip, opened a drawer and took from it a bijou coffer of elegantly carved ivory. Lions danced along its finely worked panels. Before opening it, he glanced up and found his brother diligently studying the painting King Robert Baratheon had gifted him for his 50th name day. Then he pressed the concealed indents on the small strongbox. It opened with a soft click to reveal a lining of faded crimson velvet within. Tywin folded the cloth he had been holding, still damp with rain, and laid it on the velvet pillow. It was threadbare from age and handling, the neatly embroidered heraldic lions having long since lost their gold-thread lustre. The shadow of a smile flitted across his face. Their attitudes had been arranged to make it look as if they mated. After a moment, he snapped the box shut, put it back and locked the drawer.

“A fine gift, this painting,” Kevan said, as ever.

Tywin straightened and pocketed the key. “I am fond of it.”

Only after Tywin had spoken did Kevan turn to him. “Our King is generous.”

Tywin pursed his lips. _With my coin_.

A girl with thick curly black hair, no older than eight, in the ruby livery of their House, entered with a pitcher of wine. She made a curtsy, holding the pitcher perfectly straight, her pinky lifting free off the handle as she did so. The dainty obeisance made Tywin think of Helanna mimicking her older sister and Queen. “Milords Lannister.”

“Only water,” Tywin said.

Kevan smiled at her. “We would break our fast with warm toast and egg, boiled well, Miana.”

Tywin paused. Joanna liked runny eggs. _‘I want it to bleed when I stick it with my knife,’_ she’d joke. Gerion would invariably make a rejoinder unsuited to the dinner table, as to why she preferred her egg so.

“Straight away, milords.” Miana left as swiftly as the full pitcher allowed her, to arrange the command.

“I’m not hungry.”

“Joy’s friend, isn’t she?” Kevan said, ignoring his comment. Tywin suspected his wife had instructed Kevan to hound him over it if need be. 

Tywin frowned. Joy was a pale, sallow-faced girl whose light hair was akin to straw more than spun gold. She was his little brother Gerion’s natural daughter. Loren had all but adopted the girl, diligently heeling her into the lady she might have been had his brother bothered to wed first. Tywin had seen the two girls play on occasion. They would go to the stables and braid the manes of every horse in sight, and of every young man that didn’t flee fast enough. “I’ve seen them at play, yes.”

“I wasn’t aware Ser Brynmor had wed,” Kevan said. Miana’s resemblance was more than passing and not purely because of her warm brown skin which seemed to hold the sunshine of the Summer Isles. She had the same, soft, round features. Her small, broad nose and high cheekbones framing bright, intelligent eyes the stormy grey of her father’s.

Tywin’s frown creased with disapproval. “He hasn’t.” 

Kevan’s expression fell. “Oh, I see.”

A few years ago, Lord Gawen Westerling had sold the deed to the hamlet of Westerbridge title-and-all to the Royans, in an attempt to bind one of his last remaining banners to him. Like so many things Lord Gawen undertook, it had fallen sorely flat. Lord Lloyd Royan, the newly minted petty Lord of Westerbridge, had sent his sibling to Casterly Rock faster than a dead-whipped runner boy. He’d charged Ser Brynmor with swearing fealty directly to Lord Tywin himself instead of Lord Gawen. Tywin had accepted and formalised the penny-sized fief. Ser Brynmor had chosen to stay as part of their Household guard.

Tywin entered his bedchambers to find a bath had already been drawn. He had no doubt the temperature of the water would be as he preferred it. The corner of his lips twitched as he entertained the notion of his wife drawing up precise instructions for his siblings and their staff alike before they left.

“Loren noticed when she saw her as a toddler,” Tywin said as he undressed. His wife was prudent in her caution towards strangers. Ser Brynmor had still been a new face among their guard at the time. She had kept the girl at hand, should anything unfortunate occur. Though these days, Miana’s uncle was a fixture among their vassals and her father had been commended by the assiduous Ser Gnaeus.

“You don’t approve of her friendship to Joy?”

Tywin pursed his lips. Even trueborn daughters of their respective Houses would not be friends for much longer. “Not all bastards are begotten equal.”

Tywin reached for the golden bowl and rinsed himself shoulders to toes. The plink of water drops falling from his limbs carried Tywin’s thoughts to the balnea, where bronze pipes brought water up to patter down from the ceiling like salty summer rain. They plinked just so on the warm ceramic tiles of the bathing hall. It was a feat in engineering. Tywin’s grandfather had built it for his Lady Alysanne, who had been of delicate health. It was well-loved by all the women of his family, and plenty of the men besides. After Joanna had… After she had gone, he had not used it in near two decades. Until he’d wed Loren. She loved it there, too. 

“They grow fast,” Tywin said as he rinsed himself. Though the water was a pleasant temperature, it failed to soothe the cold that had seeped into his thoughts. “Before long, Kevan will be a knight and a man grown.”

“Aye, time used to seem so slow, didn’t it?” Kevan agreed. “It feels like yester morn that I held my Lancel as a swaddled babe. I remember it so well.”

Tywin did, too. When the twins had been born, Maester Hrothan had given him his little girl. So small and quiet, she’d been. Unmoving as she laid in his arms. Until she took in a breath and came alive, opening her emerald eyes for the very first time to see him. The maesters said life resided fully formed in the seed, but he didn't think so. He had seen life come into his firstborn when he held her. Joanna had said the same about Cersei’s twin. Two children in one, they’d never dared hope. But then his thoughts clouded, and he frowned. Thrice-ten-and-two this year. A knight and a Queen they had become. Yet Cersei hadn’t been herself when they arrived for Joffrey’s name day.

“Kevan will need a suitable match soon.”

Kevan’s voice broke through Tywin’s pensive mood. He focused his gaze on his brother, who held out scrub and cloth. He took them, belatedly. “We have spent some thought on it.”

“Banners?” Kevan said as Tywin had known he would. Tywin had never meant to remarry. He knew there were, and no doubt are, those among his banners who were peeved he wed the daughter of a cousin, rather than one of theirs.

“Perhaps a Kenning of Kayce, or a Farman of Faircastle,” Kevan suggested. “It can never hurt to strengthen those ties.” His brother was shrewd, for these matches would please Loren too. The two fortresses stood vigilant between the Iron Isles and Lannisport. They formed the first line of defence against the Ironborn.

“A Marbrand,” Tywin said as he cleansed himself. The Marbrands of Ashemark were an ancient and powerful family, and their allegiance went back centuries before Aegon’s conquest. Lady Jeyne, their own Lady Mother, had been a Marbrand. As was Darlessa, the wife of his late brother. “Its been long enough that they’ve suffered our brother as their last tie to us.”

Kevan frowned at his words. “Longer for the Farmans. And Lady Alysanne is great mother to none of us.” 

Tywin pursed his lips. They were not shy for choice. “Has Loren said anything to you on the matter?” 

“No, she has not.” Kevan shook his head. “And even if she had, neither of us is served with her feeling she cannot tell me something, you will not hear of too.”

Tywin frowned. He didn’t like the notion of either of them withholding information. 

Kevan handed him a heated cloth. “What do you think she would want for your boy?”

“What does every woman want?” Tywin said as he climbed out of the bath and took it. “He’s her firstborn. She’s ambitious. She’ll want a dynastic marriage.”

Kevan stared at him for a long moment. Amusement flitted across Tywin’s face as he dried himself.

“That’s why you came home.”

There were various reasons he’d come home. Tywin frowned and reached for clean garments: a long, black tunic of finely tanned leather with a subtle pattern of lions embossed across the shoulders, and dark braies and chausses to match. Loren needed more time. Cersei hadn’t been herself. Her poise had been fragile, her willingness to demonstrate Joffrey’s capabilities hesitant, and that was nothing like her.

Kevan squinted, though amusement crept onto his round face. “You didn’t accompany Loren so she might mingle at court. True, enquiries such as these are more becoming for women to make.”

“I came home because Tion is too young to stay at court.” Tywin pursed his lips. Too young and too troublesome, for now. It was offensive enough Tyrion had insisted on staying.

Kevan’s expression turned thoughtful. “The Tyrells, the Starks… even the Martells, they all have girls in the right age range. Stannis Baratheon, too.”

“Shireen? Cersei is wed to Robert.” Tywin said as he dressed. He doubted Loren would double up ties. He knew her well enough to know she’d want to forge her own path, iron out a new alliance. To show that she could.

“The Martells? That’ll turn the court on its head.” Kevan’s smile turned wry. “Though not unthinkable.”

_No son of mine will be a hostage to Dorne_. Tywin fixed his brother a look. “I’d sooner perish.”

Kevan chuckled, though there was no genuine mirth in it. “Oberyn will be happy to oblige, I imagine.”

“The red viper is mad, and welcome to try,” Tywin said. The comment made Kevan frown, but he said nothing about it.

“What about the Starks?” Kevan said instead, shifting the topic away from Dorne. “There’s precedent.”

“Arsa Stark?” Tywin frowned. She’d been sister to Lord Beron Stark and had wed their grandfather, after their grandmother had disappeared. No children had come of it.

“Yes. And Lord Tion was betrothed to one of her brother’s daughters.” Kevan’s expression darkened, for their uncle had broken the betrothal. “Though that ended poorly.”

Tywin shrugged on his tunic. “Poorer for the Reynes.” 

“It would be good to re-acquaint those ties,” Kevan said. “The North is a powerful ally in trade, politics and defence against the Ironborn.”

Tywin’s frown deepened. He’d heard that argument before and, at the time, it had made him consider agreeing to wedding Jaime to Lysa Tully or Lyanna Stark. “The Starks never come to court.”

“Which is a shame. Last they came south, they had two fine girls,” Kevan said. “One of them is around Kevan’s age if I am not mistaken. The other is only a little older, though she may already be betrothed.”

Tywin straightened his tunic before fastening his sword belt. “That leaves the Tyrells, and they’re kin through her brother’s wife. Aliyah is sister to Lord Paxter.” Brokken and Aliyah’s eldest daughter, Lynara, had become one of Loren’s ladies-in-waiting the previous year. “Margaery? How old is she now, five-and-ten?”

“I believe so. You think Loren will sue for an older maid?”

Tywin crooked an eyebrow as he finished dressing. “Maybe. Lady Rowenna was twice-ten when she wed Lord Gerald. Loren herself three-and-twenty when she was betrothed to the Greyjoy boy by them.”

“Unhappy unions, both,” Kevan reminded him as he followed Tywin from his bedchamber.

“Indeed.” Tywin crossed his study, back to the small solar. Perhaps not Margaery, then. 

“A banner marriage would be wise,” Kevan said as they descended the stairs once more. The sweet scents of toast and sugar drifted up to them.

Tywin’s hand trailed the limestone column, absently counting the terminal rondels as they went. He wondered who Loren would set her sights on. No doubt, he’d hear before long. A smile tugged at his thin lips. They’d argue about it, but he didn’t mind. He hadn’t wed her for her placable nature.

“Unless she can convince you otherwise,” Kevan added as they reached the bottom of the stairs and stepped into the grand solar once more. He turned to Tywin and gave him a searching look. “Can she?”

Tywin pursed his lips, but it could not hide his amusement. “Maybe.”

Warm morning light flooded the erstwhile great hall, revealing flecks of gold in the pride of limestone lions. The one in repose had a crimson table runner thrown across its back like a make-shift saddle. Tywin crooked an eyebrow. It was the roaring lion that was the children's favourite to play knight-of-mine with. It's concave back and scuffed flanks were a testament to its suffering. When Cersei had been little, she would perch sideways on it, brushing her long golden hair and waving daintily at imaginary crowds. Tywin remembered how she had sat sideways on Robert’s warhorse at their wedding, waving just so at the gathered smallfolk, and he almost smiled. 

The round, oaken table near the furthest of the archways, and pleasantly close to one set of fireplaces, had been laid. The shutter beside it had been opened, a isinglass pane replacing the red wood. It allowed the soft, orange light of dawn to filter through but kept the rain at bay. The petulant patter against the mica the only sound on this quiet morning. Fresh rushes had been spread, here and their, the last scents of summer trying to chase the damp reek away. Tywin eyed the flaking wooden dragon toy sitting among horses and knights. The mark of a friendship he had thought would last his entire life. Every time he saw it, the urge to throw it out the nearest archway was real. Tion would be inconsolable.

“Have you decided for Lancel?” Tywin took the place he always sat when breaking his fast, his back to the wall and the sea to his right. His nephew would come of age soon.

“No, wish that I had," Kevan admitted as he seated himself on Loren's place, nearest the lions and toys. 

“What did Lord Emmerick say?” Tywin studied his brother as Miana poured each of them a glass of water. Had the seat been an idle choice?

“He was civil but ultimately declined.” Lord Emmerick Prester was the widowed Lord of Feastfires, his only child and heir his daughter Alynne. “Dorna was disappointed. The Presters are kin to her through her nephew Jared.”

_The Presters are kin, to us, too,_ Tywin thought. _Through Joanna’s mother_. Kevan never spoke of her. And so, neither did he.

"Boiled well, milord," Miana said as she moved to serve Kevan. 

"No, no," Kevan said and placed his hand across his platter, before indicating Tywin. 

The girl flinched but recovered admirably. She swiftly moved around the table towards him. "Apologies, milord."

Tywin inclined his head a fraction. After serving him, she returned to Kevan. 

“Lord Emmerick has only one match. No doubt he means to make the most of it,” Tywin said. Whomever wed Alynne would be the next Lord of Feastfires. Tion was only three, but he committed the footnote to memory, regardless.

“Lord Gawen approached me, regarding Jeyne, his eldest daughter.”

Tywin cut his toast in precise squares, revealing the hard-boiled egg inside. It stayed where it’d been put, as it well should. "Reject him."

Kevan looked up. “Gawen is a good man and the Westerlings have always been loyal to us.”

"And he had a good wife in Rona of Lannisport." Tywin pointed at Kevan with his knife, a square of toast pricked on it. "But no children came of that."

“Lady Sybell was very courteous." Kevan spread his runny egg across his toast. Tywin glanced away from it. _‘I want it to bleed when I stick it!’_

"Of course she was courteous," Tywin said as he caught his brother’s gaze. "If she isn't even that, she has nothing at all." House Westerling was not what it had once been, and it had been a poor match for Loren's aunt, even then. 

"I said I would give it thought."

“Don’t." Tywin said. "Sybell Spicer is the daughter of a commoner. And any betrothal to those baseborn children of theirs is an insult to the name Lannister." Tywin held his brother's gaze. He wouldn't allow his young children's prospects to be tarnished by a poorly wed cousin. 

Kevan glanced away. "I will write them."

"Gawen should never have married her." Tywin pursed his lips. "The Westerlings always did have more honour than sense."

Kevan gave a dejected nod.

Tywin poured Kevan and himself another glass of water. It had been some time since one of them wed a Crakehall. A maternal grandfather of Loren, if memory served him. “Lizl Crakehall, daughter of Ser Tybolt. She’d be a good match for Lancel." 

Kevan looked up and smiled. “I shall write them, too.”

Maester Creylen appeared with young Tion at his side. The three-year-old boy never failed to conjure up memories of Tywin’s father, Lord Tytos: short, soft, round, with a head of golden curls and those ever-smiling eyes. Tywin pursed his lips. The boy wore a red samite tunic that reached near his ankles. It was trimmed with soft squirrel because fabric edges bothered him. A fine little belt that matched his small boots gathered it around his waist. His hair was tied into thin helmet braids like his favourite knight, ever willing to let him ride his high shoulders or yeet him into the nearest hay bale, much to Tion's delight.

"Lord Tywin, Ser Kevan," Maester Creylen said with a bow. Creylen was a gaunt young man, a peer to Loren and the twins. A stark contrast with ancient Maester Hrothan. 

"Lord Papa, Ser Uncle." Though only three, Tion's speech was clear and precise. And not remotely like the terrifying mess his brother had made of talking until he was nearly five.

"Good morning, Tion," Tywin said as he put his knife down. "How was your lesson?"

"Boring."

Tywin looked at Maester Creylen. "Is that so?"

"He is a smart boy. A very smart boy, my Lord." Maester Creylen clasped his hands and dodged his gaze.

Tywin made a dismissive gesture with two fingers and a flick of his hand. He would speak with Loren regarding Ainsley. "Leave us."

"As you wish, my Lord." 

Tion climbed onto the dais and plopped down amid his toys. He picked up the flaking dragon and made it fly around him.

“I am told the Spicers are wealthy but the Crag remains a ruin,” Tywin said, picking up their conversation.

“Deeds to the eastern copper mines have been written while you were away.” Kevan picked up the glass and drank from it. “Envoys are en-route to pledge fealty.”

“Who were they sold to?” Tywin said as he resumed eating his breakfast. The copper mines were some of House Westerling's oldest and most profitable holdings. 

“Ser Teron Worting,” Kevan said. “And Dame Miriam Hill, now of House Worting of Silverbrook.”

"Daughter of Ser Gerrit Closter, is she not?" Tywin shook his head. The old tourney knight had too many children and none of them by his wife.

“Aye, one of the elder ones, I think.”

“The northern shores are splintering among a dozen petty Lords while the Crag lays a ruin.” Tywin scowled. Something had to be done. And soon. “They’ll squabble before long, and the moment they do the ironborn will stir. Those sea rats smell weakness like a shark does blood in a pond.”

“One of them will prevail over the others,” Kevan said. “And if not, a cadet branch could marshal them.”

Tywin frowned. Little Tygett would have been the right age in a few short years. “It’ll be two-and-ten long years before Tion is old enough.”

“You have another son.”

Tywin's scowl deepened. And none did ever let him forget it for very long. 

“Why not give this task to Tyrion? Let him stand on his own two feet.”

Tywin looked up to find his brother studying him. There was tension in his shoulders.

“Perhaps.” Tyrion was cunning enough, Tywin didn’t doubt that. He frowned as he observed his brother. Loren had suggested something rather similar, not too long ago.

“If little Kevan is to be the one to follow in your footsteps, you will need his older brother settled before long.” Kevan choose his words carefully. “He may be younger than the twins but not by that much, and not for very long. He’s five-and-twenty, its not too belated to wed yet.”

“It’s past time.” Tywin rubbed his fingers past his lips, considering it. But to who? Perhaps Loren had an idea. It was as his brother had said: enquiries such as these were easier for women to make. Kevan shifted in his seat, drawing Tywin’s attention. _What are you two up to?_

"Lord Papa?" Tion stood beside him, that benighted dragon under his arm.

"Yes, Tion?" Tywin said.

Tion reached out his small arms to him, dragon-and-all. Tywin shifted his chair back and picked the boy up, sitting him on his lap. "Are you hungry?"

Tion eyed his father's near finished breakfast. There were still some choice bits left. 

"Do you want the yolk?"

Tion turned away from the table, his nose against his father's tunic. His eyes never left the plate, though.

"Here," Tywin said as he picked up his knife and pricked a bit of the hardboiled yolk to it and held it near his boy's lips.

Tion took the bite, smacking a little and snuggling closer against him. Tywin shifted, removing the dragon’s wooden wing from between his ribs. Tion’s grip on it tightened as soon as he touched it and Tywin ground his teeth as the thing was squeezed against his side once more. 

"Studying is hungry work," Kevan said.

“Indeed.” Tywin pricked another morsel on his knife and fed it to Tion.

Kevan smiled as he watched the boy, then turned to Tywin. “Castamere could be rebuild and used as a cadet seat, it’s stood empty—”

“And so it will remain,” Tywin interrupted. Castamere served a purpose and it would remain as it was: a shell of the proud fortress it had been.

“The woodlands surrounding it could provide the boost in charcoal we need,” Kevan pointed out. “And the silver mines may not be depleted even if the gold mines are.”

“They are, they loaned heavily from our Father.”

“Debts he always cleared. They lend because they could, we don’t know that they needed to.”

Tywin’s frown creased deeper. 

“Tailyn wishes to lead a prospecting expedition to the old mines.” Kevan laced his fingers. “She is confident that if there’s still silver there, she can find it.”

“Out of the question.” Castamere had stood crumbling for soon twice-twenty years. For all they knew what was left of it would collapse as soon as it was disturbed.

"Can I see the mines?" Tion sat up, putting his dragon on his own lap. He was a curious boy, and an intelligent one too. He already knew his letters.

"Absolutely not."

Tion looked up at his father, his bottom lip trembling.

Tywin crooked an eyebrow.

Tion scowled. "Down."

Tywin obliged and put his son back down on the ground. Having finished their breakfast, Kevan and he rose as well and moved to the dais. 

“She’s very adamant that there might be silver yet,” Kevan said.

“Loren's sister is adamant about everything.” Tywin sat down on the divan beneath Joanna's portrait. Tailyn was as stubborn as she was skilled. He frowned. She’d been skipping dinner of late, taking her food with to the forges. So, that was what she was up to.

“She seemed certain, Tywin.” Kevan sat in a chair at his side and leaned forward as he spoke.

“You’re fond of her.” Tywin followed Tion from the corner of his eyes as the boy moved around the solar. He knew Kevan was wont to humour Tailyn's outlandish ideas. It made him suspect his brother missed having a daughter to dote on.

“As are you of Loren. Does that cloud your ability to gauge the merit of her words?”

Tywin’s scowl returned. _Think carefully before you go there, brother._

Kevan sighed in response.

They sat in silence, for a while, watching the boy play.

“I go outside,” Tion announced.

“No, you will not,” Tywin said.

Tion turned, regarding his father. He took a step towards the shuttered archways.

Tywin’s eyes widened in warning.

Little Tion pouted, a crease wrinkling his button nose and his small chin jutting forward as he squinted at his father in defiance.

“No.”

Tion's bottom lip trembled but this time, it was real. Tywin could tell. "The weather is poor, you'll be swept off the balcony."

The fascinated look the boy gave the shutters was precisely the opposite of Tywin's intent. "Come here, " he said, beckoning him.

Tion picked up his dragon, and a lion for good measure, before going to his father. "For you, " he said as he held out the lion.

"Thank you, Tion." Tywin accepted the lion, which had once been a stair baluster top. Its gilding had long since flaked and it's garnet eyes had been removed for safety.

“Up?” Tion stretched out his arms.

“You’re a big boy, come climb on here yourself,” Tywin said. The divan was low enough.  
  
Tion scowled, his little nose wrinkling. Then threw the toy-shaped block of wood into his father's lap.

“Tion.” Tywin scowled as the dragon struck him square in the stomach.

“King Dragon is bad at flying,” Tion said before clambering onto the couch. 

Tywin could scarcely wait for the day Tion would bore of the toy. He’d have it fly right out the window.

Tion snuggled against him, the dragon lodged between them. Tywin picked up the lion. It had less pointy parts. He shifted, intending to swap it with the dragon. However, as soon as he placed it between them, Tion latched onto it. The boy wrapped his arms around the wooden toys and curled closer, now nestling both hard objects into his father's ribs. Tywin sighed. It wasn't worth the tantrum. He was still so small, even though he sounded wise. He had risen very early for his lesson about the night sky and it had disappointed him, which angered Tywin. His bright little boy deserved the best tutor they could find.

"You can still make it in time, " Kevan said.

Tywin glanced up.

"To King's Landing, " Kevan added.

"Yes." 

Tywin’s thoughts drifted back to the tourney. His daughter was scheming, he could tell. He’d always been able to tell. _What are you up to, Cersei_, he thought, for the first time in a long while.

Kevan smiled and nodded. “Good. I am glad.”

The rain pattered against the isinglass as the morning light crept across the solar. Tion's eyelids fluttered. He tethered on the edge of sleep, his thumb in his mouth and faint suckling noises escaping him. _Can you see them?_ Tywin's gaze found Joanna's face, her emerald eyes smiling at him. _He is as clever as his mother. Only three and he already knows his letters_. Tywin stroke Tion’s curls, golden as the sun in the filtered morning light. _Loren is proud of him. I am, too_. He gathered the dozing boy closer and hummed the dulcet tones of a song he’d once danced to. Its words came to him despite himself, and he sang them softly to his sleeping son: “I loved a maid as fair as summer, with sunshine in her hair.” 


	5. JON

Lord Jon Arryn descended the stairs of the Tower of the Hand, light spearing into the dark stairwell through narrow lancet windows every other turn. The steps were scuffed and tapered, their height made uneven by the feet of uncounted Hands, travelling up and down, day after day, council after council. Even the engraved handholds hammered into the ashlar had long since been reduced to formless knobs with the dark, fatty sheen of metal polished by incessant handling. Today was one of those days on which the steps seemed endless. Jon had once been a large man, wide of chest and thick of waist, but time had worn him thin as surely as it had the tower steps. He was robust for his considerable age, but the seven hells take those stairs. _A few short years and I am twice-forty_, Jon thought as he reached the bottom, his breath laboured and sweat beading on his forehead. _Preposterous_.

Jon crossed the inner bailey, towards Maegor’s Holdfast. To his surprise, he saw Lady Loren standing by the lone, stone archway into the godswood, her hands clasped in front of her, fingers entwined. Jon wondered if she’d come from the enclosed acre of alder and black cottonwood. He didn’t think any other women of the court frequented it. 

Lady Loren wore an elegant, sable cotehardie, edged with bands of red velvet and goldwork. Belted high and reaching past her knees, it gave the impression of skirts. However, when she shifted her posture, Jon saw she wore dark chausses underneath and long riding boots to match. Her braids were held in scrolls on either side of her head, like ramshorns, evoking the steadfast determination of that creature. Gone were the voluminous sleeves and lengthy skirts of red damask, the sumptuous ermine mantelet, the jewelled crespinette and elegantly veiled circlet. In the days since Tywin had left, she had changed her appearance, gradually, one garment at a time, until the subtle resemblance became unmistakable. In essence, she had adopted her Lord Husband’s severe style. Few at court would look at her now and forget with whose authority she spoke. Jon smiled. She was an incisive woman. No doubt, a quality Tywin appreciated in his Lady Wife.

Lady Loren spoke to a man who stood with his back towards Jon. He was tall, bald and sinewy. Dressed in storm grey damask that shrouded his broad shoulders and fell down to the heels of his well-made boots, Jon thought for an instant that Tywin had returned. But no, on glimpsing the man’s stern profile he recognised Ser Stannis Baratheon, Robert’s equally surly brother.

“Shireen is a sweet girl,” Lady Loren said as Jon passed them. Her green eyes moved to him.

Jon inclined his head but didn’t slow his pace. “Good morning, my Lady.”

“Lord Jon.” Her gaze flicked down in acknowledgement before returning to Stannis. “How old is she now, seven, eight?”

“Nine.” Stannis’ tone was curt, his lips pursed. Those unfamiliar with him would be forgiven to think it a reprimand, a rebuke to an error the Lady of Casterly Rock had made. It wasn’t. He always spoke this way.

Lady Loren smiled, Jon glimpsed it as he moved away from them. It softened her sharp features and dimpled her freckled cheeks. “A little lady already.”

Jon had hoped to speak to Stannis in private, regarding the matter they were investigating, but it would seem that would have to wait till after the small council. He dreaded telling Robert, even though he knew they must. A man, even a King, might father a dozen bastards and few would care. A woman? Unbidden, he thought of Eddard and his Lady Catelyn, and all their little ones with their red, red hair and soft, summer faces. And the bastard girl that resembled Eddard like a younger sibling. They had to be sure. Queen Cersei deserved that much.

“Kevan will stay here, in King’s Landing.” Lady Loren’s voice floated to him on a warm breeze. “Have you thought on where Shireen might ward?”

Jon snapped out of his pensive thoughts. _Shireen? Warding?_ The day before, he had seen her speak to Lord Yohn Royce. _Shireen and Ysilla,_ he thought. _Daughters your son’s age._ And he realised why the Lord and Lady of Casterly Rock had come to court after all these years.

They had shown off their young children at Joffrey’s name day tourney as surely as Tywin had his twins all those years ago at Lannisport. Though that event had taken an unfortunate turn. The memory of Tywin stalking from the royal pavilion with his crying daughter in his arms hadn’t seen fit to leave Jon yet. Fortunately, Joffrey’s tourney had been a joyous event. Young Kevan had near won the children’s tilting at the quintain. Helanna had sewn a beautiful favour as she sat on her Lord Father’s lap, watching her brother ride. Even Tion, an unbreeched boy barely able to sit his sister’s pony, had participated. However, his heart laid elsewhere, Jon could tell. In hindsight, Tywin’s interest in the performance of other children - youths and maidens alike - had been telling. He had mingled, and much more so than you might expect of a Lord Paramount as unpersonable as Tywin Lannister.

“Do visit to the Westerlands, someday. The tourney season is ahead of us, and I dare say Helanna would be thrilled to have a friend to visit the fairs with.” There was a smile in Lady Loren’s tone. A smile and a fishhook. 

Jon thought of the little girl with her blonde curls, tiny goldwork slippers and lion-embroidered petticoats. She had carried her older sister and Queen’s train as if the smallest of ladies-in-waiting. His son Robert she’d greeted with courtly grace and a gentle curtsy. They had played a while. Though, she’d given her small favour to Prince Tommen.

By then, Jon had reached the serpentine steps up to the inner bailey and Maegor’s Holdfast. _Seven hells take all these stairs_, he thought, and with a resigned sigh, he climbed them. The sun beat down on him despite the early hour and by the time he reached the penultimate landing, sweat beaded on his forehead once more.

Jon paused and glanced across his shoulder, down into the courtyard below. Lady Loren and Stannis still stood by the godswood. Jon had recalled something, as he’d been making his way up the thrice-damned stairs: Eddard had a daughter around Kevan’s age. Was it Sansa or Arya? Jon wasn’t sure. It had been years since Eddard had come south. Perhaps, it was time that he did. There was no way to avoid Tywin feeling slighted by the whole sorry affair when they revealed their evidence regarding the matter they had been investigating. However, they must, somehow, forestall him raising his banners in reprisal. It wouldn’t be the first time a son and maiden had mellowed fraying loyalties. _You must come to court, Eddard_, Jon thought. _Robert will need you before the end_.

Jon sighed, climbed the last flight of stairs and made his way to Maegor’s Holdfast and the royal chambers. Tywin’s eldest son stood guard by the door to Robert’s solar, his white cloak crisp and clean even at the bottom trim. Jon wondered if the young man resented his duty. The lions were proud.

“Ser Jaime,” Jon greeted as he approached.

Ser Jaime inclined his head but didn’t speak.

“Your Grace?” Jon called.

“Ah, Jon! Come in, come in!” Robert boomed from beyond the doors.

Jon entered, but he didn’t see the King. The morning sun came in through the latticed courtside windows, and fresh thresh with herbs woven in saturated the air with the scents of summer. A bird tweeted clear notes, just outside one of the windows. _A lark_, Jon thought, when he heard the trill that followed the melodious tones. In front of ornate chamber screens carved with tourney scenes, stood a low solar table, its mahogany tabletop resting on the shoulders of a carved stag. Two comfortable, upholstered chairs with a faded forest-motif on their ochre damask stood beside it. Jon frowned at the half-full goblet that stood upon the table. It wasn’t even noon.

“I’ll be out in a minute!” Robert bellowed from beyond the mahogany partitions. It was abruptly followed by cussing. “Seven-be-pissed-upon, mind the goods, lad.”

“Apologies, Your Grace.” One of the Lannister boys. Lancel, judging by his timid voice. Tyrek was an assured youth with a tongue to match. Jon suspected that Robert liked him better than his cousin, for most of the same reasons as he did young Kevan. 

“No rush, son,” Jon said. He had anticipated the usual argument to convince the King to attend his small council. However, it would seem Robert was already changing into his court finery. Pleasantly surprised, Jon clasped his hands behind his back and waited.

When Robert appeared from behind the chamber screens, Lancel at his heels, Jon’s expression fell for Robert was wearing his most polished hunting attire.

“Find your cousin Tyrek and have him ready the horses and hawks.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” The nervous youth made a bow his King ignored. “Lord Jon.”

“Lancel.” Jon inclined his head then turned to Robert. “The small council, Your Grace—.”

Robert interrupted him with a wave of his large hand. “I’m going hawking with Loren and, after that, her lad’s fete.”

“I am certain young Kevan will enjoy it,” Jon said tactfully. In quintessential Robert Baratheon fashion, the King had insisted they throw the ten-year-old a celebratory fete when he had heard of his squiring. Unfortunately, that had been scant three days ago. That they had managed to organise it at all was a small miracle. And how precisely they were going to pay for the last minute festivities was a point on Jon’s agenda still to be resolved.

“Oh, I bet he’s a right little party lion, if he takes after his feisty mother or that witty uncle of his,” Robert guffawed. He snapped his fingers. “Golly, what’s his name. Garon? Gerold? No. _Gerion_, that’s right. He knew how to have fun.”

“Your Grace, I must insist. Your small council has need of you.” Robert and Loren were peers in age, and he knew they had been friends in their youth. The two of them, together with Eddard and his sister Lyanna, had oft gone hunting or hawking in those heady, heedless days before Harrenhal. For a while, it had been apparent that Loren and Eddard would wed.

Robert strode around to the table, picked up the goblet and drained the last of the wine with a deep gulp. “The rabbits have changed their fur: thick and soft as sin for winter. Those mottled pelts will look handsome about her freckled shoulders.” He squinted, imagining it, and added: “those delightful spots run down across her teats, you reckon?”

Jon closed his eyes and pretended he hadn’t heard that. His King and former ward had never been shy with his opinions, especially not when it concerned ladies. However, Jon wished he’d exercise restraint when speaking of other men’s wives.

“I’d bed her on them if she’d let me, I tell you,” Robert chuckled. It occurred to Jon he may have drunk more than the one goblet, found he hoped so because then his egregious comment might be overlooked if not forgotten.

“Your Grace, may I request you refrain from such observations, they are ill-advised.”

“That’d be a right fright if Tywin can hear all the way from that cliff of his,” Robert scoffed. 

_Maybe not, but his son certainly can_, Jon thought, glancing at the door from the corner of his eyes. 

Robert shook his head, his jowls quivering under his bushy beard. “Mad Aerys spend half a decade taking potshots at the old lion, and he got away with it.”

Jon pursed his lips. “He got away with nothing, Your Grace, in the end.”

Robert’s expression fell, no doubt remembering precisely why the sack of King’s Landing was a thing that happened. As well as who ran a sword through the Mad King’s back. With a measure of grim satisfaction, Jon saw Robert’s gaze jump to the door. He let the uncomfortable silence sit for a moment before he spoke again.

“Lady Loren will be here for a few more days,” Jon said, his tone not unkind. He raised his hands in an open gesture. “Why not go on the morrow? Invite the Lords and Ladies of the court, make a day of it.”

Robert shook his head. “I made a promise, Jon, and I mean to keep it.”

“Your small council has need of you, Your Grace,” Jon repeated. As he had feared, Robert laughed at that.

“I loath counting coppers. If I had known then how boring it would be, I would have never taken that crown.” 

It was no news to Jon that Robert detested his lot in life. Well, the ‘tedious nonsense’ of it, as he put it. It reminded Jon of the time, now seeming so long ago, when Robert had been but a young lad and joined his father Steffon to court. He had met the boy then and had overheard him and his brother Stannis speak breathlessly about the King holding court and how noble and wise he’d been. Jon smiled. That day, King Aerys had not sat the Iron Throne, it had been his Hand, Tywin Lannister.

Robert smiled ruefully. “I should have let Tywin have it, the old lion would enjoy this tedious nonsense.”

Jon didn’t believe Tywin would have accepted the crown. He was fond of the Westerlands, was unable to give them to Jaime and unwilling to give them to Tyrion. No, Tywin was a career courtier, he wouldn’t have taken it. They might have had a King Eddard and though, outwardly, he may have done it to the best of his abilities, he would have been as miserable as his friend. In hindsight, all they’d had were poor choices. 

“Loren would have been a proper Queen,” Robert asserted. “Always pleasant and supportive.”

Tywin would have sooner returned as Hand, the position Jon knew he craved more than any crown. A duty that had been his for over twenty years. Twenty _stable_ years. Despite a King’s ever more rapid slide into madness. Early into their victory, Tywin had made a casual pass at being willing to return as Hand. Robert had responded without an inch of decorum he’d rather have Eddard. That, of course, hadn’t gone down well. And so, Tywin had left. As had Eddard, for that matter.

Jon had stepped up to council his erstwhile foster son. In the end, it had been for the best that Tywin had returned to the Westerlands for he hadn’t been particularly popular with the gentry and commonfolk of King’s Landing alike at the time. Jon had arranged the marriage between Robert and Cersei in the hopes of mollifying the rankled Lord Paramount and smoothing the slight of the preceding reign with the promise of change. They couldn’t afford to alienate one of the most powerful Lords of Westeros. Still couldn’t. Tywin was a poor enemy to have, and their impending accusation would surely make him one. Unless they could sustain his support.

“She never so much as raises a peep against him.” The wistful tone of Robert’s words struck an uncomfortable chord with Jon, jerking his wandering thoughts back to the unfortunate present.

_Perhaps not in public_, Jon thought. He’d never enjoyed the company of the man Tywin had become but had known the child he had been: a serious, long-limbed boy that had been a dutiful page to King Aegon, and a calculating youth who had outperformed his elders during the War of the Ninepenny Kings. Even as a child, Tywin had not suffered fools, and so Jon highly doubted he’d wed a woman who had nought but rose water and fairytales between her ears. No matter how obedient and pleasant she may seem.

“Perhaps, it is because he doesn’t give her cause to,” Jon said mildly. Queen Cersei was no kitten, but one could avoid many scratches by not wilfully yanking the tail.

“She stacks the court with incompetent sycophants. She wanted her uncle to be master-at-arms!” A hint of youthful petulance crept into Robert’s baritone, and it reminded Jon how young they all still were. What is thrice-ten, really? He had decades ahead of him yet. 

“If you came to the small council together with your Queen, we might all speak on the appointing of certain offices.”

Robert crossed his arms with gruff finality. He looked away from Jon. “Loren doesn’t drown Tywin in cronies.”

Jon smiled, but it was a sad smile. _That’s because she trusts him to have her back, son_, he thought, but said: “I am certain Queen Cersei would appreciate it if you requested her to support you at council.” It would be good to have them both where he could see them. Queen Cersei desired a ruling crown with the same intensity her Lord Father did the Hand’s seat. Jon might as well try and make her wiles work for him, for surely her presence would prod Robert to engage too.

“My Queen doesn’t care to support me in anything.” Robert shrugged, though then changed the topic and added: “Jon. There is something else I wish to discuss with you.”

“Your Grace?”

“It’s about your boy, my namesake.” Robert sat down, and the chair groaned ominously as he settled in it. He motioned at Jon to do the same.

Jon did as he was bid, dread coiling in his gut. A year ago, perhaps more already, certainly before Stannis had approached him, he’d spoken to the King regarding a promise of betrothal between his son Robert and Princess Myrcella. Nothing had come of that, and he’d forgotten about it. Until now.

“Have you decided where he will foster?” 

Jon swallowed his relief. “No, not yet, Your Grace.”

“I see.” Robert frowned and reached for the goblet, but he had already emptied it earlier and sat it back down after casting a reproachful look at its wine-stained bottom. 

“May I ask why, Your Grace?” Jon didn’t like the brooding mood that had settled over Robert.

“Young Robert is a sensitive lad. Gentle. Delicate, I’d say if he were a maid.” Robert’s careful choice of words brought Jon’s apprehension right back. “But his Lady Mother...” Robert gave Jon a near apologetic look. “Lady Lysa is soft with him, careful. I fear she may smother his manliness, and so hamper him as a youth.”

The thought had crossed Jon’s mind, but he didn’t begrudge his young wife her doting care for the boy. It had been trying for her. Robert was their only child, and his needs were different than most. He trusted her to know what was best for their son.

“Do you have someone in mind where he might foster?” Jon said, meeting the King half-way on the question he was beating around the bush about.

The dour clouds of Robert’s expression broke with a beaming smile. “Yes. And before you protest, I assure you that I have given it some thought.”

Jon forced a calm, and hopefully encouraging, smile.

“I believe, strongly believe,” Robert continued. “That it will be best for the boy if he wards at Casterly Rock.”

It may have been good for his son, once. Jon didn’t disagree with that. There would be young peers for him to spend time with - Kevan, Helanna, their friends among their Lord Father’s banners’ children. The bracing climate and sea air might have done his health good. However, there was the matter he’d been investigating. 

“Your Grace—.”

Robert raised his hand. “I know, I know. The lion doth not deign to ward.”

_Does she suspect us?_ Jon thought. _Are the betrothals a convenient ruse for an investigation of her own?_ If she knew or suspected, she would undoubtedly share her suspicions with Tywin. Could she have found out? They had been careful. She was a shrewd one, her meticulous image politics during the tourney had shown that. She may have.

“Not to worry,” Robert continued quite unperturbed. “I have it on good authority that his dear Lady Wife can hector him into it.”

Jon doubted anyone could hector Tywin into much of anything. People had said the very same thing when he had wed Lady Joanna. He thought it more likely that it had to do with peoples’ wish to lessen Tywin’s looming presence, rather than the reality of his relationship to either his current or late Lady Wife. Once again, the immediacy of guaranteeing Tywin’s continued support clamoured in his mind. If they knew, this could mean they were moving into a position where they could keep his only son and heir hostage. But did they know?

“I will take it under advisement if you consider it wise, Your Grace,” Jon said tactfully. He couldn’t precisely tell Robert why he was less than thrilled about this prospect. 

“Excellent.” Robert slapped his knees and rose. “If that is all? I have a hunt to attend, and I will not have it said I made a Lady wait.”

Jon sighed and nodded, he’d be remiss to say he wasn’t glad the conversation was over. “May I suggest that, in the future, you could plan these events around the meetings of your small council, Your Grace?”

“I will try,” Robert said with good humour. “This one couldn’t be helped. The lady requested it, not I.” 

Jon frowned. It had been plain as a plucked cockerel that neither Tywin nor Lady Loren herself had appreciated their King’s overfamiliarity during Joffrey’s name day feast. She and he had been friends, once, but that was a long time ago. And things had changed. Why would she ask him to hawk? It was no secret that hunting was the second-best thing their King liked to do, and the best-thing assuredly wasn’t on the list of acts she was willing to commit to. 

“Your Grace.” Ser Jaime saluted as Robert left his chambers. 

“Run along, Kingslayer.” Robert made a dismissive gesture. “Go report to your winsome sister that I am going hawking with your good-mother and save her flunkies the effort.”

Jon wished Robert wouldn’t antagonise the knight at every opportunity, lest they find out if he’d care to be a kingslayer twice over.

“As you will it, Your Grace,” Ser Jaime said, his expression impassive as the Wall. With some sorrow, Jon supposed he was used to it. He hoped against his better judgement that Ser Jaime wasn’t keeping a tally.

Jon watched Robert go, his hunting leathers creaking about him in discontent as he walked. The weather was good, at least. The hawks could soar. Sudden realisation snatched him like a falcon: Myrcella was eight. And young Kevan’s… cousin? Niece? He rubbed his forehead. The Lannisters certainly made everything complicated. _Wait._ He snapped up. _If that is the reason_—.

“Your Grace, a final word?”

Robert turned to Jon. He smiled amiably as if he’d expected the words. “Quickly, then.”

“Has Lady Loren perchance spoken to you regarding betrothals for her son?”

Robert grinned, seemingly pleased. “Not with so many words, no, but she was rather curious about my plans regarding Myrcella’s future.”

_She doesn’t know_. Jon blinked. _Does Tywin know? No, clearly not. He may be proud, but he was absolutely not stupid. He wouldn’t stake his pre-eminence on a false claim. And he definitely wouldn’t tolerate his son be wed to… to…_ Jon’s thoughts baulked at thinking the foul words. None of this was the little princess her fault, but it would cost her most, all the same. Jon pushed himself to smile. “That is all, Your Grace. Enjoy your hunt.”

“I shall,” Robert said with a fat wink.

Jon watched him stride away, a swagger to his gait. He shook his head. It really would be better if their King wasn’t so transparent about his appreciation of other men’s wives. 

Robert halted abruptly, some ways down the hall. “Oh, and I shall tell her about young Robert!” he bellowed as he gave Jon the thumbs up. “Loren will be pleased, I tell you!” He swore heartily then. “Seven-take-her, even my precious Queen, will be pleased!”

Jon started terribly. 

“Can you believe it? I am convinced those two haven’t agreed on a thing ever.” Robert snorted derisively. “She’s twice as quarrelsome with her good-mother as with me, even.”

_Cersei_ desired his son be fostered at Casterly Rock? That, surely, was a move to hold him hostage. Did she know of—.

“Lucky she got her practice in with Tywin, eh?” Robert chortled and waved a hand in their direction. “Kingslayer, tell your sister it is a done deal, while you’re at it!”

Jon marshalled his reeling nerves. He could not let on any of this alarmed him, particularly not with Ser Jaime right beside him. If they didn’t suspect him yet then seeing his reaction would assuredly make it so. 

“It seems you have been relieved of your duty for the day,” Jon said to Ser Jaime as they watched the King truly leave now. His light tone sounded forced, even to his own ears.

Ser Jaime pursed his lips sideways, and it reminded Jon of Lady Joanna, who’d do it just so when irritated. How long since she’d passed, now? Twice-ten years? More? Ser Jaime resembled his Lady Mother with his delicate, alabaster features, mild cat-green eyes and hair like beaten gold.

“I will see to my young brother, then.”

“Ah yes, a squire soon. A great leap for every growing boy,” Jon said with a gentle nod. “Give him my compliment.”

Jaime smiled, and it made him look more like the late Lady Lannister still. “I will.”

Jon made his way back out of Maegor’s Holdfast, down the serpentine steps and to the small council’s chambers. By the time he passed the Valyrian sphinxes guarding the entrance to the modest hall, sweat beaded on his forehead once more. Perhaps he ought to move the small council to his solar. 

The Baratheon brothers, Ser Stannis and Renly, sat on either side of the King’s seat at the head of the massive, polished trestle table. Ser Stannis, serious and prim, sat with his back straighter than the chair he sat on. Renly, his brown hair in a fashionably unkempt ponytail, reclined sideways with an elbow on the table, already bored. Grand maester Pycelle hunched, shuffling his papers. Correspondence from the ravens, no doubt. Only Ser Barristan Selmy rose when Jon entered.

“Lord Hand.” Ser Barristan inclined his head.

“Lord Commander,” Jon returned as he walked around the table to the King’s vacant seat. Two more places were empty. Lord Petyr Baelish, the master of coin, was missing. As was Master Varys. However, Jon suspected the clever eunuch only attended when he needed to verify information from his ‘little birds’. Or when he had seeds of his own to plant.

“A good afternoon, my Lord,” Pycelle was quick to say on the knight’s heels, his voice feeble.

“Grand Maester,” Jon acknowledged. For the briefest of moments, he entertained relieving Lord Baelish from his duties the minute he arrived. Not that his lateness was such a grievous offence or a regular occurrence, but it was a reason. Jon didn’t like the man and never had, and yet he could not point to any one thing. Lysa spoke highly of him, but then he was her childhood friend. He wasn’t inadequate at his responsibility, either. Still, Jon rather saw the back of him.

Jon seated himself at the head of the table. They had several pressing matters to discuss: the state of the fleet, repairs on the seaward defences, the laying of stores for the coming winter and, not least among his worries, how they were to settle the bill for Robert’s latest fete. Even though nominally, it was not in his own but young Kevan’s honour. Best they start light with the ships.

“Lord Stannis, if you will,” Jon said.

Stannis pursed his lips as everyone turned to regard him. “The construction of three carracks is well underway. It may be possible to add a fourth graving dock if we dam the eastern wharf.”

“And thin trade even more?” his brother scoffed. “It’s already impossible to get Penthosian wine.”

Though a decade hence, the royal fleet was only now recovering from the Greyjoy rebellion. It had taken years to rebuild King’s Landing after the Sack, and that had eaten into their reserves. In those early days, Tywin had refused loans, citing the need to fortify Lannisport and the whole of the Westerlands in anticipation of Ironborn activity in the regnal power vacuum. He had not been wrong. Yet a man could be right _and_ serve his agenda - a fortune of confluence. Not for the first time in all these long years, Jon wondered if there had been more to the refusal than wounded pride.

“If trouble stirs in the east and we are caught with our braies untucked, there will never be fine wines again, brother.” Stannis’ tone was terse. He put his hands on the table, palms pressed against the dark wood.

The Greyjoy rebellion had come and gone, leaving the royal fleet limping on the quayside as surely as it had the Lannister ships. And they’d been burned at anchor. Yet the Lannisters had the means to rebuild their fleet despite Lannisport laying in ashes and had done so swift as their coastal winds while the crown tottered on its last coppers. Tywin had agreed to extend loans _then_ and on his terms as they had been in no position to make demands.

Renly had sat up now, his attention on Stannis. “And what good will fine ships do us when the loyal subjects of our dear brother rise up against us?”

“Over wine?” Stannis crooked an eyebrow.

Now, the lion’s share - Jon smiled, amused at his word choice despite himself - of their debt was to the Lion of the Westerlands. And the Iron Bank of Braavos, which wasn’t much better. What if it was by design?

“They’ve revolted over less.” Renly turned to the Grand Maester. “Isn’t that so?”

Jon didn’t doubt Tywin would use the debt when it served him. His thoughts strayed to Robert’s words regarding Myrcella. They could definitely force that betrothal if they wished to. Didn’t they know what Cersei and her twin brother had done? Or was it all feints? Meant to give the illusion of legitimacy where there was none?

Pycelle flinched as if he’d been dozing, but Jon caught the keen look in his green eyes. “The sumptuary law of 278 AC was ill-received.” Jon leaned forward, straining to understand the Grand Maester’s stuttering account. “It restricted the wearing of Lysian silk to the landed nobility. Before, it had been available to any who could afford it. Which were not many, to be sure! But it is the idea, you see. Many a merchant or trader may see it as their future, robbed prematurely. Some of our powerful but, say, not quite pedigreed, Lords, took great offence and harnessed this ambitious smallfolk to their side to—.”

“The point, Grand Maester,” Jon said, not unkindly.

Pycelle huffed, stacking his papers. “The point—.”

“The point is: a bunch of up-shot merchants blockaded the city over whether or not their fine ladies might wear silken smallclothes between the sheets,” Renly interjected. “Hardly a life essential, though I am sure our King would disagree.”

“It has been too long the fleet has been below strength.” A vessel started to pulse at Stannis’ neck as he spoke.

“And whose fault is that?” Renly crooked a perfectly manicured eyebrow. “You’re the Master of Ships. Is it not your duty to find a way?”

“I found a way,” Stannis said through gritted teeth.

Renly waved his hand. “A poor way. Lord Brokken Lannister of Lannisport ought to take your seat. The Lannister fleet has been bobbing at the port at strength for several years now. And it was burnt to the last plank a crispy black, I believe.”

Pycelle bobbed his venerable head. “Yes, precisely so. All fifty-and-three vessels—.”

“No.” Stannis glared at his sibling. “There is enough lions at court as it is.”

Renly shrugged. “At least they know their ships.”

As Stannis looked about ready to explode, Jon quickly raised his hands in a placating manner. “We can find a middle ground,” he said. “And Lord Stannis is not wrong. The Lannisters are not well-loved in our capital. If these tensions around imported luxury goods are as you say, then their further involvement may only fuel the fire.”

“ ‘The Lannisters are not well-loved’, ” Renly repeated, his tone nasal and overacted. “People keep telling me this, and yet all I saw was crowds cheering loudest every time that little lion rode his pony at the quintain.”

“Smallfolk are fond of the children’s games.” Pycelle had folded his bony hands atop his parchments. 

Renly flicked his hand and eyes in perfected unison. “Evidently, even when its the ickle-wickle whelp of the Lord they purportedly hate? Sure.”

Stannis pursed his lips. “Young Lord Kevan is a gallant little fellow and charming as they come at that age.”

Jon frowned. The Lord and Lady of Casterly Rock had been on their best behaviour for Prince Joffrey’s name day tourney, even Tywin had been near pleasant. He realised then that it had been an intelligent ploy to garner a favourable image. They had not come to court in years. For many, court peers and smallfolk alike, it would be the first they ever saw of the lions. He glanced at Renly, who had slouched once more. Might there be more who shared his blase attitude towards the Sack and the House that had permitted it?

“The Lannisters host some of the most prestigious fetes on Westeros, and they do not overlook their middling class and smallfolk,” Ser Barristan said. He had not spoken up before though Jon was not surprised he did now. Ser Barristan had been a famous tourney knight in his younger days, and he still enjoyed riding down the lists. “Lady Loren conforms to the common people their expectations of a pre-eminent peeress and the Grand Lady of a Great House. She is well-loved in the Westerlands. And it is that way, precisely, because of how she conducted herself, her Lord Husband and her children, such as she did at the Crown Prince’s tourney.”

Renly snorted. “You mean, unlike our _beloved_ Queen?”

“Don’t let Her Grace hear you, her toes are as long as they are fair.” Lord Petyr Baelish swept into the room with a flutter of his silk capelet, striking down on the empty seat like the bird on his sigil as the fine cloth settled about his narrow shoulders.

“Someone ought to cut them down to size.” Renly shifted to lean on his other elbow, away from Lord Baelish.

“Lord Baelish, I am pleased you were able to join us after all,” Jon said before the topic of Queen Cersei’s vanity could be discussed further.

Lord Baelish smiled that soft, insipid smile. “And how I wish it was with good tidings for you, Lord Jon.” 

“Out with it, Baelish,” Stannis demanded. “You’re already late, don’t insult us further.”

“You wound me, Ser Stannis. I would never delay the realm’s vital matters.” Lord Baelish’ grieved expression was as fake as the shimmering black of his short hair.

Jon had a bad feeling about the petty Lord’s good mood. They rarely turned out well for anyone but Petyr Baelish himself. “Lord Baelish, how are our coffers?”

“As empty as his promises, I am sure,” Renly scoffed. The Baratheon brothers shared their first agreeing look in weeks. _They are a good team_, Jon thought, _when they can get over themselves long enough to work for a common goal_.

Lord Baelish’ expression was pained as he folded his hands, one palm across the other. “It is the matter of little Lord Kevan’s squiring fete—.”

Apprehension settled in Jon’s stomach like spoilt supper as Lord Baelish caught his gaze. _Had Ser Jaime refused? Had Robert changed his mind?_ Jon glanced at Ser Barristan. _Have you stood by the old tradition that none but future Kingsguard may squire with its current members?_ For one, horrible, moment, Jon feared he had unwittingly supported the induction of a ten-year-old.

“—the King’s feast for the young squire has a tidy bill that will need paying.”

Jon stifled his sigh of relief. Monetary problems they had plenty, to be sure, but it beat having to inform Tywin another son would take up the white, any day.

“How much will it cost us?” Stannis had clenched his jaw. He wanted to fund for the fleet and, Jon suspected, the Stormlands. They had ever sat in the shadow of the Crownlands and had never recovered from the wars with Dorne.

“372 500 dragons and 8 stags, precisely,” Lord Baelish answered with a mathematician’s satisfaction.

“Three-hundred—.” Jon could all but see the calculations fly by behind Stannis’ grey eyes, which widened a fraction in shock. “_How_.”

“There’s the banquet, of course, and the tokens for guests. The honour guard and the minstrels and mummers,” Lord Baelish enumerated as he struck a finger for each item. “The throne room has been decorated, and then there’s the King’s gift—.”

“If only our brother cared to spend as much on us, eh?” Renly remarked as he tossed Stannis a look. He’d slouched again.

“Can we afford it?” Jon may not like Lord Baelish, but he was decent at his job.

Lord Baelish steepled his fingers and pursed his lips, drawing out the moment as he looked at each of them in turn before catching Jon’s gaze once more.

“Sadly, no,” he said as he folded his hands in defeat.

“Then we must call it off,” Stannis said, ever pragmatic and unable to empathise.

“We are not calling off a child’s name day party.” Renly sat up an blew a stray bang out of his face. “And certainly not mere hours before it starts!”

Stannis opened his mouth and closed it again. The muscle in his jaw flexed. “It’s not his name day.”

“Like the difference will matter to the lad,” Renly pointed out. “Besides, will you escort Lord Tywin’s sobbing child to him? Because I plan to be out of town for that one.”

“Have you been successful in your negotiations with the Iron Bank of Braavos, Lord Baelish?” Jon interrupted, steering the conversation back to the fact of the bill rather than its potential consequences.

At his words, Lord Baelish’ insipid smile became positively self-satisfied. “Yes, they have extended our credit and agreed not to charge returns for the coming two years.”

“Good, very good.” Jon chose not to wonder on how, precisely, Lord Baelish had managed to wheedle the infamous institution into wholly meeting their demands.

“However, it would be prudent to save those for, let us say, greater matters that require deeper pockets,” Lord Baelish added.

“Agreed,” Jon said with a nod.

“We have some levies that we can cover the little fete’s expenses with,” Lord Baelish said. “We can raise import taxes for the coming quarter to make up for it.”

“No.” Stannis made a cutting motion with his hand. “Traders will skip our port and make straight for White Harbour and Lannisport instead.” 

“So?” Renly drawled. “I bet Lord Tywin taxes the daylight out of anyone making port in his Lady Wife’s humble town. All we need to do is stay a margin under him.”

“If we do that the Starks will have a good year.” Stannis’ lips had become a thin line as his palms pressed against the wood of the table.

“It doesn’t matter.” Renly shook his head, his tousled locks bouncing about his shoulders in such a dramatic fashion that Jon could all but hear the youths and maidens sighing. “The lions and wolves can’t stand each other. Our brother placated Lord Stark, and they may be willing to discuss import agreements to cut Lannisport.”

Robert had been cheerful the other day, when Jon had asked, in passing, after his renewed correspondence with Eddard. Jon had good hopes his foster sons had bridged the chasm that had grown between them. However, Renly wasn’t wholly correct. It was the wolf who couldn’t stand the lion. Jon wasn’t so sure the lion felt the same. 

Lord Baelish smiled pleasantly. “Perhaps we should ask the wolves, then, if we might lend their tail? It’s not like they have need of it for wagging.”

“Surely, there are reserves left to us, to pay for the fete?” Ser Barristan said, a frown creasing his lined brow. Everyone looked at Lord Baelish, who pointedly turned to Stannis.

Stannis ground his teeth. “There are fleet reserves.”

“We shall use those,” Lord Baelish said amiably. “And we can entreat the Iron Bank to finance further expansion of the fleet.”

Stannis looked pleasantly surprised, but Jon shook his head. “Absolutely not.” 

The fleet reserves had come from Casterly Rock, together with Lannisport shipwrights and Westerland hardwood and steel. In essence, generous ‘gifts’ that Jon was acutely aware of, as well as the stream of gold trickling back to Casterly Rock through the pay and keep of these shipbuilding crews. Beggars couldn’t be choosers, though, and Tywin had spared no ink to use it. Not that Jon was naive enough to think another Lord wouldn’t have, given the same opportunity. Charity was for the Silent Sisters, as the proverb went.

“Why not? They will easily suffice.” Lord Baelish smiled still, but the mirth had left his eyes.

Jon looked at him, gauging his intent. “Those reserves come from Lord Tywin and are intended for the fleet. If we change how we spend them, we must inform him.”

“The party is a gift from our King to the boy, Baelish,” Renly said with a look as if he considered the petty Lord both dimwitted and beneath him. “Are you volunteering to tell Lord Tywin he’s footing the bill?”

“Oh, that is very true, how silly of me, that might certainly ruffle his mane,” Lord Baelish said, and while his tone was flippant, there was venom in the look he threw Renly.

Renly snorted. “You think? A choice gift indeed if you have to pay for it yourself.”

“No doubt, Lord Tywin has spent more on the boy than most of us do in a lifetime,” Stannis said. He’d managed to unclench his jaw, for now. Although his palms still pressed on the wood, the tension not having left them just yet.

“As is his duty as Father,” Pycelle’s reedy stutter added with a disapproving frown at the King’s brothers. Pycelle was ever servile, but today his sycophantic comments made Jon frown. He resolved to be mindful around the old Maester, incase he whispered to leonine ears. Maesters were supposed to swear off all bonds of loyalty except to the Lord they served, but old allegiances died hard.

Renly slouched, his expression bored. “I am putting myself up for warding with the lions. I wouldn’t mind a few gifts like that.”

Stannis looked at his brother with open disgust.

Renly grinned. “What’s that, Stannis? Afraid they’ll forge me a dandy antlered crown?”

Stannis jaw worked. 

Jon raised his hands in a placating manner. “My Lords.”

The last thing Jon needed was the two brothers trying to entice the Lannisters to either of their sides. The Tyrells were already behind Renly. They were the traditional enemies of the Lannisters. The two Great Houses bickered over their shared border like fishmongers over a cod cut. An alliance was unlikely, but Jon was wholly unwilling to chance it. 

Ser Barristan crossed his arms. “If Lord Tywin puts a crown on anyone’s head, it’ll be his Lady Wife, and an exquisite Queen she’d be.”

A Tyrell-Lannister alliance would have a stranglehold on Westeros’ economy. Olenna and Tywin’s mother, the late Lady Jeyne Lannister, had been ladies-in-waiting together at King Jaehaerys Targaryen’s court. And at Joffrey’s name day tourney, Olenna and Tywin had yet been on speaking terms. 

“As fine as our beloved Queen.” Pycelle bobbed his ancient head sagely. Jon curbed the urge to tell him to cut it out.

If Renly, or more likely, Olenna herself, was attempting to forge this alliance, he must reinforce Tywin’s support to Robert sooner rather than later. Twice so, in light of the matter they were investigating. However, if Robert and Eddard had reconciled, a further tightening of bonds might prove troublesome on account of the latter’s dislike of the Lannisters in general, and Tywin in particular. Eddard had never forgiven him for allowing his banners to tarnish their justified rebellion with the blood of the Targaryen children.

“Doesn’t he do so already, on her name day?” The disapproval was obvious in Stannis’ tone.

And yet, though the wolf couldn’t stand the lion, Jon wasn’t so sure the lion felt the same. Again, he thought of Eddard’s daughters. All it would take was one wolf, one _young_ wolf, and that one-sided feud might be gone.

“Indeed,” Ser Barristan said.

“When is the tourney, half a year, thereabouts?” Renly straightened, leaning both elbows on the table.

“Eight months,” Ser Barristan said. “You mean to attend?” 

“Loras mentioned it.” Renly’s tone was thoughtful. 

Jon hadn’t yet forgotten his earlier comment. Few would think twice of the sons of Great Houses attending such an event, certainly one as eminent as a fete in honour of a Grand Lady of peer Great House. A chance meeting, an exchange of thoughts, a sharing of drinks together that would attract attention in any other setting. Indeed, Jon had once used the very same tactic, many years ago. He frowned. He must secure Tywin’s continued support of Robert. More so than ever, it would seem.

Ser Barristan nodded. “I will ride. The Lady Loren asked that I preside the squire’s tourney.”

“Ah, the first occasion young Lord Kevan will enter the lists as a young man, is it?” Pycelle wheezed as he stroke his beard.

Ser Barristan inclined his head. “Just so.”

“My Lords. I understand the importance of jousts to the realm, but might we continue with the matter at hand?” Lord Baelish suggested smoothly. “Whether Lord Tywin would like a crown is perchance better saved for the solar and a glass of fine Penthosian wine.”

“Good luck finding that,” Renly scoffed as he threw his brother a look. Lord Baelish’ perfect eyebrows rose, but he didn’t ask.

“His daughter is Queen,” Stannis said, the scowl contorting his mouth. “What more does he want.”

_His son to be Hand_, Jon thought but kept that notion to himself.

“The debts owed paid, I imagine,” Ser Barristan frowned also. “Baelish, it is your task to see to these things - and without loan upon loan.”

Lord Baelish raised his hands in a helpless gesture. “Unlike Lord Tywin, I cannot sift a bucket of gold from our sewage, Ser.”

“My Lords, the matter at hand,” Jon interjected before it could escalate. What was it today with everyone regarding the Lannisters? This was no use. Jon decided they’d settle the matter of the fete and then adjourn. He wished to speak to Stannis, regarding the matter they were investigating, but now, also, regarding his younger brother’s seemingly casual remarks. They could not afford a Tyrell-Lannister alliance as a result of Tywin choosing Renly’s side. And Stannis jilting him regarding his daughter’s offspring might do just that.

“I have modest private funds,” Lord Baelish said. He laced his fingers, smiling amicably.

“Another loan, but this time from you.” The distaste in Stannis’ tone was impossible to miss.

“Well, the funds must come from somewhere,” Lord Baelish bristled. “I suppose it is easy enough when one’s Hand sits on gold mines, apologies Lord Jon, but alas we do not have such luxury.”

“We could, perhaps, invade the Westerlands?” Varys glided from the shadows, the voluminous sleeves and skirts of his sumptuous houppelande whispering in his wake.

“Are you out of your mind?” Stannis demanded. The palms of his hands tapped against the wood.

Varys smiled softly as he folded his on his ample stomach. “Invasion by marriage, I apologise for my unclear word choice.”

_No, you don’t_, Jon thought. No one made comments such as that idly, certainly not someone as crafty as the eunuch. A way to gauge the room on Lannister support, he decided. The disquieting feeling of brewing unrest swam somewhere in the vicinity of Jon’s stomach. Had Varys found out? He may have. Did his comment imply he wanted a change of King? Or only Queen?

“Quit speaking riddles.” Stannis scowled.

“A marriage could bring us the funds we seek.” Varys’ puffy, powdered face tempered with a gentle smile. “Myrcella and little Lord Kevan.”

Jon flinched. If he knew, he was intentionally steering for a scandal.

“They are related.” 

Jon flinched all over again. This time, it was Ser Barristan who had spoken up in distaste. _How had he—._

“Cousins.” Varys unctuous smile never wavering. “As are Lady Loren and Lord Tywin.”

“Technically, the boy is her uncle.” Lord Baelish glanced up from inspecting his nails. “The Queen is his big sister, after all.”

_Right_. Jon let his breath slip. For a moment he’d thought—.

“Half sister,” Pycelle amended promptly.

“Lord Gerald and Lord Tywin are cousins, and maternal ones at that.” Ser Barristan shook his head. “Lady Loren’s relation to her Lord Husband is more distant.”

Baratheon, Arryn, Starks, Tully and Lannisters had once seen eye to eye. If he could reforge those old alliances, Robert’s reign would be secure. Betrothals, as they’d done then - Kevan to a Stark girl and his little sister, Helanna, to his Robbie. Jon pursed his lips. It could work. And if he committed to tutoring young Kevan, taking him with as he went about his duties as Hand, Tywin might yet stay with them when they brought their evidence before Robert and the whole of the royal court.

“Let us settle the matter of the fete,” Renly said. “I grow tired and have more interesting occasions to attend to.” 

Jon gave the youngest Baratheon brother a look, but Renly ignored it. Jon sighed. In truth, he was growing tired too. “Very well.”

“Lord Baelish, you said you had some funds.” Ser Barristan had crossed his arms once more. Despite his age, they were thick with muscle. It reminded Jon how winded he’d been, coming down the stairs. He’d never been a soldier, but he knew perfectly well that he could do more for his health.

“Private funds from a lucrative venture,” the petty Lord said. He’d clasped his hands, and Jon entertained the notion he resisted the longing to rub them together. _No_, Jon thought. _No, we shall not be indebted to you, Petyr_.

Ser Barristan’s bushy eyebrows rose. “‘Venture’?”

Lord Baelish smiled, almost apologetically. “Modest funds, certainly, from an establishment I invested in.”

“Establishment?” Stannis scoffed. “You mean that whorehouse on the street of silks.”

“Well. The ladies—.” Lord Baelish stacked his fingers.

“Whores.” Stannis glared.

“Beggars can’t be choosers,” Varys said smoothly, his tone as slick as the silks pandered on that street.

Jon flinched as what Stannis had threatened ever since he’d put his hands on the table finally happened. The Lord of Dragonstone slammed his open palms on the wood, rising in anger. “We are NOT paying for a _child’s_ fete with whore pennies!”

Varys inclined his head demurely.

_Certainly not for Tywin’s child’s fete_, Jon thought. Tywin had never quite softened to the plight of those women. Not after his Lord Father had squandered their gold on them and taken one to mistress right under the Lady Jeyne’s nose. Jon hadn’t forgotten what had happened to that woman when Lord Tytos had passed.

Lord Baelish pursed his lips, his feathers ruffled. “It’s a trade, like any other.”

Renly let out a snort of laughter, Stannis merely glared. Ser Barristan had straightened in his seat, disapproval on his lined face.

“A dangerous one, too, those poor women.” Varys smiled softly. “They are lucky to have you watch over them, Lord Baelish.”

The master of coin smiled, inclining his head.

_Are they?_ Jon thought. _Are they, truly?_

“We will use funds from the Eyrie,” Jon said. Everyone looked at him. His House wasn’t quite as prosperous as the Lannisters - he smiled to himself, _not in any meaning of that word_ \- but neither were they poor. They could use part of the funds he’d set aside for repairs on the Gates of the Moon. Those were necessary, yes, but had been for a decade. They could wait a while longer still.

“Lord Jon, if I have given offence regarding your capacities as Hand, I dearly apologise,” Lord Baelish said, sweet and servile.

_Spare me_, Jon thought. _That jest of Tywin shitting gold was old when you were born_. He wanted the matter done with, he needed to speak with Stannis. “None taken, Lord Baelish. I will send word to my treasurer, Eryn Wyles.”

“It’s most gracious of you to provide private funds, Lord Jon.” Varys hands folded into the unimaginable depths of his voluminous sleeves. “If that is all, my Lords? I must attend to other matters.”

“Your little ‘birds’ have ‘need’ of you?” Renly scoffed. He slouched in his chair, kicking a leg idly. He flashed a wicked grin at Varys.

“I only ever tweet to my flitter-flatters, Lord Renly,” Varys cast his gaze down with a demure nod. “My… _late_ employer left me little choice, as it were.”

Renly laughed heartily at that.

Stannis pursed his lips. “What ‘bird’ might tweet matters of equal import to this council?”

Varys looked up and right at Jon. A soft smile curving his painted lips. “Why, the fairest bird in all the realm.” Before Jon could respond, the eunuch turned and swept away with the rustle of great lengths of exceedingly expensive samite.

“Indeed, this is all,” Jon said and rose. “Let us meet on further matters on the morrow, at noon.” There were agreeing noises from around the room. Only Renly looked displeased. No doubt, he must reschedule some outing or the other. He might complain about it but what mattered is that he did it. Jon sighed. If only Robert would.

“Stannis, a word,” Jon said as the Lords filed out. He caught Renly’s suspicious look and added: “you wanted my thoughts on the fleet composition?”

Stannis halted, frowned. Jon caught his gaze and tried to signal him with his eyes. It felt as if eternity passed before Stannis gave a curt nod. “I did.”

“Let us walk, then.” 

Jon meant to return to the tower of the Hand but thought better of it. Instead, he conducted Stannis to the eastern court gardens. There may be ‘birds’ there, too, but the open architecture made him feel it would be harder on them to eavesdrop. Not impossible, no, but harder, at least.

They walked in silence, each to their own thoughts. Jon tried to decide how to start the discussion. There were several things he meant to address. On at least two of the three matters, he anticipated resistance from the younger man.

“Fairest bird in all the realm,” Stannis pursed his lips. “He meant Cersei. She knows, then.”

_Perhaps_. Varys was tricky. He’d certainly meant the Queen. But, had he intended to let on she - _he_ \- knew of their clandestine investigation, or did he merely wish for them to believe so? “I wouldn’t go on the word of a spider alone,” Jon said. “But it is not unthinkable. The lions are not altogether clueless.”

Stannis’ lips twitched, and for a moment Jon thought he might smile. “The little lion is sharp as a dirk.”

“I imagine his Lord Father made sure the best whetstones are applied to his young mind.” Jon clasped his hands behind his back as they ambled through the lavish gardens, pebbles crunching underfoot. Kevan was a good topic to start on. He suspected Stannis was enamoured with the boy. Jon smiled to himself. Four short weeks ago none in King’s Landing knew Casterly Rock’s pint-sized heir. Now, he dared guess those who didn’t were scarce.

“He assisted me with fleet inventory calculations. He had asked to, said he wanted to impress his uncle when he came home.” Stannis pursed his lips but Jon could tell he was pleased.

“Not his grandfather?” Jon asked, surprised. Lord Gerald Lannister was Lord of Lannisport and fleet master, last he’d heard.

“He said uncle,” Stannis scowled.

“I believe you,” Jon said, not wanting to irk the younger Lord already.

“He meant his mother’s older brother, I believe.”

_Ser Brokken, then_, Jon thought. He wondered why the boy favoured his uncle. “He did well, I take it?”

They had halted at a fountain, water instead of fire spewing from its three marble dragons. The water clattered cheerfully, the morning sun glinting on the splashing water. Its sound would obscure their voices from any but the keenest ears.

Stannis turned to Jon. “He is serviceable with his numbers, but that was not what he excelled on.”

Jon smiled despite himself. “Don’t let Lord Tywin hear, I dare say ‘servicable’ isn’t what he’d like.”

Stannis gave a curt nod. Jon sighed. So much for striving to keep a light mood. “What did he do well at?”

“Plotting coastal patrol routes,” Stannis said. “He took one long look at the map and adjusted the current routes to overlap more efficiently, as well as using fewer ships.”

“No small feat for an adult, nevermind a ten-year-old. He must have spent a good amount of hours being drilled on similar tasks, perhaps optimising guard patrols or area canvassing.” It was an essential skill for a field commander. Again, Jon had the unnerving feeling unrest was brewing. He was positive Tywin would have his young son instructed in these matters even if they were in the middle of the greatest peace of their age. And yet, here was a ten-year-old performing a task an adult commander might be troubled with. Maybe, it was merely a boy with a knack for the same skills as his father. Or, it was another incongruity. Another leaf falling spelling the change in seasons, the end of summer.

Stannis looked him up and down, his frown wrinkling deeper. “What is it you wanted to speak about? Not ships, I think.”

There it was. Jon took a deep breath. “The matter we’ve been investigating.”

Revulsion delineated Stannis’ already resolute features harder still. “It is true, I know it.”

“It very likely is,” Jon said, his tone diplomatic. They had calculated the years, tracked Ser Jaime’s whereabouts, even visited a near dozen of Robert’s bastards. And while it was true a wife’s children might look like her, even three, four; none of the bastards did. _None_.

“We must tell Robert, and soon.” Stannis’ tone was firm. He was sure, had been from the start. So confident, in fact, that it had given Jon pause at the onset. Robert and his younger brother were scarce a year apart, and with no legitimate son, Stannis was his natural heir.

“There is one more avenue I wish to explore. I have been able to acquire a copy of Grand Maester Maelleon’s work on the lineage of the Great Houses, including Baratheon and Lannister.”

“A maester one-hundred years dead and buried.” Stannis’ temper turned impatient. “What possibly can ancient history tell us on this matter?”

Now it was Jon’s turn to frown. “A great deal if we have the wits to hear and wish our accusation to be wildfireproof.”

“Your wish,” Stannis pointed out.

Jon let it slide. He’d always had a cautious nature, he knew this. He also knew young Kevan wasn’t the only Lannister that didn’t lack for wits. If they couldn’t ascertain Tywin’s continued support and if there was even the smallest of cracks in their claim. He’d turn it into a gaping hole. If he could be won to their side… Lady Loren would surely side with him, Ser Kevan as well. Even the Imp might, on account of his apparent affection for his good-mother if not his father. Besides, there was absolutely no love lost between him and his sister. Even Jon could tell. Jaime would undoubtedly side with Cersei, but he’d never had the sharpest claws of their pride, and he was only one knight - one sworn white cloak: no name, no lands, no funds. And no longer vital to his father’s grand ambitions.

“Lord Jon?” Stannis’ voice cut through his thoughts, then repeated his question: “How do you mean to use this book?”

“It’s a genealogical record, famous for both its accuracy and meticulous recording. It should corroborate our theory - Baratheons’ dark as winter wood, Lannisters fair as the summer sun.” Jon sat down on one of the elegantly carved marble benches near the fountain. His back ached, and sitting afforded some small relief.

“That is all?”

Jon glanced up at Stannis’ dismayed words. “Lady Loren said she thought there may have been a Baratheon maid wed into her side of the family around the time the record was made. I mean to see if that’s true, for it could provide the ironclad proof we need.”

“You told Lady Loren?” Stannis said sharply. That boded ill for one of the other points he meant to discuss. As he had feared.

“No.” Jon shook his head. “We came to speak of lineages after I complimented her boy’s performance at the tourney and remarked on his striking similarity to his father.”

Stannis made a noise that could have been derision. “The lions all resemble each other. Kevan looks just like Lord Tywin. His sister Helanna is the Queen in miniature. Even the little fat one—.”

“Tion,” Jon corrected mildly.

“—Tion, looks like the old lion.”

_Like his grandfather Tytos, actually,_ Jon thought but he didn’t say it out loud. Poor boy. His grandfather was not well-loved by his father.

Lady Loren had told Jon her Lady Mother was dark of hair, as was her older brother, who in turn had a raven-haired daughter himself. She had confided, moreover, fear for a dark-haired child of her own. In light of Robert’s appalling behaviour ever since they’d come to court, Jon understood her concern all too well. If such a child were born, there would be talk no matter the truth. 

“After you have pursued this avenue…?”

Their investigation indicated she need not fear - all her children with Tywin would be golden as the sun, like their parents. Jon had wanted to reassure her but knew he couldn’t do so without revealing what they had discovered. And so, he’d said nothing. He felt poorly about that. It had been evident that the possibility gave her much concern.

“If it confirms our suspicions we can bring our case before Robert,” Jon agreed. Then he shook his head. “We must mitigate the odds of Lord Tywin calling his banners and bringing war to our doorstep.”

“His daughter committed treason.” Stannis’ jaw worked.

“Indeed, it seems she has.” Jon sighed. “However—.”

“_Treason_,” Stannis repeated. “And shielding her will be tantamount to the same.”

Stannis certainly wasn’t wrong, but that was not the point Jon wished to make, and so he said: “would you not do the same for Shireen?”

Stannis’ scowl darkened. “Shireen is a child.”

Jon nodded. “That she is, but if she weren’t? If she was a woman grown and someone brought a claim of treason to your threshold?”

Stannis’ jaw worked.

“Wouldn’t it be a father’s duty to protect her?” Jon pressed. He needed Stannis to see the necessity of meeting Tywin halfway - three quarters if need be.

“It would be his duty to get to the bottom of it.” Stannis’ tone was reluctant. It was as much of an agreement as Jon would have dared wish for. After a moment of thought, Stannis added: “I would hold myself to the verdict.”

Jon’s expression turned sad. _You would, wouldn’t you?_ he thought. He hoped no one would ever speak of the disfigured girl with convincing ill-will to her father.

“You aren’t Lord Tywin, however,” Jon said diplomatically.

Stannis gave a curt nod.

“He’s a pragmatic man when it comes down to it, and House Lannister’s honour no longer rests solely on the twins’ shoulders.” And not for the first time that day, Jon thought how fortunate they were in that. If they could ensure the futures Tywin likely coveted for his younger children, he just might be willing to cut his losses.

Stannis rubbed his chin, his brow furrowing. “You think he could be persuaded to stand aside? The Queen won’t like that.”

“He might. And no, she most assuredly won’t.” Without the tangible threat of Tywin’s swift and sharp retribution, Queen Cersei had very little; indeed, Jon thought. And no doubt, she knew it as well.

“If we can ensure certain prospects more worthwhile to retain than a disgraced daughter...” Stannis mused as he pursed his lips. 

“Son and daughter,” Jon corrected mildly. It wasn’t merely Cersei who had committed treason. And they ought not to forget it cost Tywin two children, not just the one. His two eldest children, at that, the son and daughter traditionally most valuable to a noble House’s future.

“But not his heir.”

“Therein lies our gain,” Jon said. It will be a scandal, no doubt. A blemish on the Lannisters’ golden history that they will have a tough chore polishing away, to be sure. But it wouldn’t be the end of the House. _Needn’t be_, Jon corrected himself. Not the way it would have been if Tywin hadn’t wed again, hadn’t had additional sons he was willing to leave land and title to.

“You sound as if you have given it thought?” There was an edge of suspicion to Stannis’ tone.

Jon had given it quite a lot of thought, the past fortnight as they assembled their final pieces of evidence, but he said: “Some, yes.”

Stannis regarded him carefully. “And these thoughts entail?”

“I could tutor Kevan, take him with me as I go about my work,” Jon said as he clasped his hands in his lap. “Tywin has served this realm as Hand for over twenty years, and not inadequately, despite the increasing instability of King Aerys. I do not think it a poor guess that he might have similar ambitions for his son.”

The beginning of a scowl crept onto Stannis’ stern face. “It would also give him ears at court and right beside the King, at that.” Jon had considered this too and knew it would make the offer all the sweeter for it. Tywin hadn’t come to court in nearly ten years, and so there was no reason to assume he wanted ears here. However, a shrewd man wouldn’t decline an opportunity freely given.

“It would, but if he wanted it, he already has it through Ser Jaime standing guard right outside Robert’s door, through Cersei and her ladies, or the nephews squiring for our King.” Not entirely true, for Kevan was a ten-year-old who loved his father as well as any young boy might. And Varys had once told him that: ‘small ears hear the clearest’. Jon didn’t think Stannis would consider this nuance, to him children were children, bless his stubborn heart.

Stannis’ expression soured. “It would be no promise, but the implication the boy be Hand after you is there.”

“It will still be six long years before the boy will be of age, but yes.”

“A son’s future for a daughter’s trial.”

Jon didn’t like to think of it that way, but it was true.

“Robert likes the boy,” Stannis added. 

Jon knew it to be correct. Did he fear young Kevan might prove a rival? It was not unheard for kings without legitimate issue to adopt an heir. He couldn’t afford Stannis to be suspicious of the boy. And so he said: “He’s young yet, and we’d have some years to help him grow. You come to the council.” Jon smiled, though it was a sad smile. “Robert does not.”

Stannis seemed to consider this. “You think this will be enough to pull Lord Tywin’s support?”

Jon wished it would be, but he dared not hope. Tywin likely considered it within his own capacities to assure this future for his son. They would need more. Something he could not as quickly achieve himself. It was why he’d come up with his second assurance. “I will speak to Lady Loren and confess an interest in the promise of betrothal between her daughter Helanna and my son Robert.”

The way Stannis stiffened told Jon what he would say even before he burst. Jon sighed. And so came the first of the two anticipated arguments.

“You will hand them the Eyrie?” Stannis struggled to keep his voice low, to not raise it into an angered shout.

“It won’t come to that,” Jon said with more confidence than he felt. His son was sickly. He might not even make it to wed and become a man grown, he thought with a heavy heart.

Stannis gave him a sceptical look, and Jon heard the unspoken words as surely as if he’d spoken them. 

“Robert spoke with Lady Loren, he wishes my son page with her Lord Husband, at the Rock.” Jon left out the part regarding Cersei desiring this also. It concerned him a great deal, to be sure, but it would only fan Stannis’ unease.

When Stannis spoke, he’d seemingly dropped the topic. “She spoke with Lord Royce,” he said.

Jon frowned, confused. “I imagine she spoke with a great many lords, including you, I presume, this morn?”

“That she did.” Stannis cocked his head. “You do not think it odd she spoke to him?”

Jon frown deepened. “House Royce is an ancient and respected House of the Vale—.”

“_Of the Vale_, indeed,” Stannis said. “The kings of old, were they not?”

“Yes?” Where was he going with this?

“A while ago, you mentioned you’d declined Lord Yohn’s offer to betroth his daughter Ysilla to your son.”

He had.

Stannis’ eyebrows rose meaningfully. “And now he’s talking to the lioness,” he added.

_Could it…?_ Jon’d assumed Lady Loren had approached Lord Yohn, not the other way around. Lord Yohn had an infant son, too. What was his name? It had sounded similar to his sister Ysilla’s. Elijah? He’d be scarcely more than a babe, two years, three maybe, but Helanna was just five, after all. “Lord Yohn and House Royce are loyal.”

“Are they?” Stannis’ expression was grim.

If Lord Yohn had approached Lady Loren, that was the only time ever he’d noticed the old Lord toe the line. And, even then, it was hardly tantamount to treason if all they’d done was reflect on mayhaps and could-bes. Helanna was only five, his son an unbreeched boy. Jon shook his head. “House Royce has never given cause for doubt.”

Stannis regarded him silently.

“If Robert and Helanna wed, it doesn’t matt—.” 

Jon’s voice trailed off as a stifling realisation settled in his chest like a wet towel across the face. If his son passed - and though he dreaded it, he knew his boy’s sickly nature would not see him grow old as he had - Helanna would certainly rewed. And who might then be the right choice, to ensure the support of the Lords of the Vale for the youngest Lady Lannister? Lord Yohn’s son.

“You might as well hand them the Eyrie straight away and save them the trouble,” Stannis said.

Jon shook his head. They were in a sorry situation, but he believed they had little choice. “Robert must set Cersei aside as a result of her actions and rewed. If we can, in any way, avoid Tywin raising his banners in rebellion, we need to try it. The quicker and quieter this whole affair goes, the better.”

“Lord Mace wishes his daughter wed my brother.”

_You mean Olenna wants it,_ Jon thought. “All the more reason to smooth any ruffled manes. The Reach and Westerlands have bickered like hens over worms for generations. We don’t want Robert to become that worm.”

Stannis nodded. “Renly supports it too, though she’s a fair maid and cleverer than him by half.”

Jon knew Renly, Loras and his sister Margaery to be fast friends, much like Robert, Loren, Eddard and his sister Lyanna had been. He speculated the reason Renly supported this match was due to Olenna. No doubt, if he supported it, she would permit him and Loras to have what they had. As far as Jon knew, Olenna took no issue with it. However, he knew her well enough to know she’d use it when it suited her.

“Lord Tywin and the old crone seemed amiable enough, during the tourney.” Stannis pursed his lips.

“I’m sure they did,” Jon said. He’d been around a little longer than Stannis, though. Those two would flay the other alive if push came to shove. Not that it had happened. At least, not yet. “We know the gods are good because they saw fit to make sure those two did not wed each other.”

Predictably, Stannis didn’t smile, let alone laugh.

“Let us hope they only spoke about their children and grandchildren,” Jon said. He hadn’t yet forgotten Renly’s allusions during the small council. A Lannister-Tyrell alliance against them was the very last thing they needed. Renly would be a puppet the minute Tywin and Olenna found common ground in supporting him as the Baratheon of choice. No, if the lions and roses were giving each other sidelong glances, they better exploit the situation and marshal them behind Robert before they forged any cunning plans of their own.

“I believe so, Kevan was with them.” Stannis had crossed his arms, thoughtful too, now.

Jon feared Tywin and Olenna were plenty capable of talking right over the boy’s head in covered language if they so pleased. He didn’t share his concern.

“You support this too, Margaery?” Stannis asked.

Jon frowned. “Yes. Yes, I do think so.”

“The Tyrells are good allies to have, particularly if the Lannisters rebel.”

“We must prevent that at all cost.” Jon shook his head. He wouldn’t let it come to that if he could. They didn’t need another war, they needed stability. There had _been_ stability until they had found out what Cersei and Jaime had done. 

Stannis scowled, and Jon realised there was no more postponing. He had to tell him what he planned to do. Stannis’ stiff, recalcitrant demeanour reminded Jon of Tywin and reaffirmed to him the necessity of his plan. For if Stannis baulked, then assuredly Tywin would for he was every inch as contrary. Jon might throw morsels large and little at him, but if the lion was in no mood to eat, it was no use at all.

Jon took a deep breath and put his hands on his knees, steadying himself. His gaze wandered to the godswood. Had Robert and Loren yet returned from their hunt? He squinted into the middle distance, bracing himself and mustering patience: “I believe we must tell Lady Loren and have her break the ill news to Lord Tywin.”

“And give him a headstart to rally for war?” This time, Stannis’ voice rose well above the clatter of the fountain.

Jon made a placating gesture, urging Stannis to lower his voice. “If our accusation leads to him raising his banners, it doesn’t matter when he hears.”

“Of course, it matters!” Stannis objected. “It will give them the time to rally vassals ahead of us. Even mount a counter case to our accusations.”

“If our claim is solid and true, no counter save bribery will prevail and if they go that route, our case will crumble either way,” Jon said. It concerned him because most people could be bought, and few were more persuasive in the buying market than the Lannisters on account of their wealth. And Robert enjoyed the lifestyle he could assuredly not afford on his own. How much gold would it take to convince him to keep Joffrey as his heir? Jon hoped they would never find out. Hoped, he realised, that Tywin would be too proud to accept grandchildren born of incest.

“He could rally an army,” Stannis repeated through clenched teeth.

“We cannot risk open war, and if it comes to it, we are at poor odds even if he hears it only at trial. Last time he pitched his banners, there were 12.000 lances at the toss of a liripipe. And the Tyrells favour your younger brother, if the Lannisters join them, we might well have a coup on our hands.”

“Not last year, there were skirmishes in the northmarch - south of Silverhill, along the greentail.” Stannis’ jaw worked. He’d crossed his arms, and there was tension in his shoulders.

“Perhaps.” There were always skirmishes in the northmarch, except during the tourney season. Presumably, Clegane and Crane butting heads on the shores of Red Lake because they were bored. Jon smiled, for the landed knights had reminded him of something not altogether dissimilar. “Years ago - many, years ago, when I was younger - Lady Olenna and Lady Jeyne were ladies-in-waiting to Queen Rhaella.”

“Lady Jeyne, that is Lord Tywin’s late mother, correct?” Stannis’ jaw had stopped working, but his stance remained pinched.

“Correct. Those girls were vicious. Jeyne once put copper powder in Olenna’s bath, staining her grain golden hair a sickly green and necessitating its cutting. Olenna put dead mice in her clothes chest in reprisal, the odour of death never leaving the fine samite garments, and they had to be burnt.”

“How is this relevant.”

Jon raised a hand at Stannis’ impatient tone, bidding him listen. “One day, Lady Lyarra Stark came to court and choose her sides: she favoured Lady Olenna in a solar conversation with the Queen. Then, perhaps to seal the deal, she assured a spoilt egg made it into Lady Jeyne’s breakfast, giving her embarrassing flatulence all through a court ball. Do you know how Lady Olenna responded, to this?”

Stannis’ jaw worked once more. “No.”

“The Lady Lyarra woke up to find one of her braids cut, right below the ear, and a note on parchment bearing gilded roses that she’d better stayed up north.” Jon recalled it well, for Lyarra had been distraught and her father much peeved. Yet he’d seen the lioness and Queen of Thorns share tea in this very same garden that day.

Stannis was processing his story, Jon could tell from his frown. “You believe the Tyrells will support the Lannisters?”

_She might_, Jon thought. And, like Tywin himself, Olenna was a poor enemy to have. Nevermind those two combined. Jon pursed his lips. “This is no spoilt egg, to be sure, but not as certain an impossibility as one might think.”

“You mean to tell Lady Loren, then,” Stannis said. “You have already decided.”

Jon regarded Stannis for a long moment. Then nodded and said: “Yes. I will examine the genealogy tonight. I suspect it will confirm our theory. On the morrow, I will discretely approach Lady Loren. I will propose tutoring of Kevan and convey interest in a promise between Helanna and my son. If she is forthcoming, I will share our findings with her. And, if the gods are good, I can convince her of the necessity she be the one to bring this news to her Lord Husband. And of the assurance that these futures for her children are set in stone if they allow the twins to stand trial.”

Stannis frowned but no longer objected. “Will she return home, or send a raven?”

“I hope to convince her to go in person, such matters are better not trusted to ravens. And, I do not think such news should be given on paper,” Jon said. _Least of all to Tywin_, he thought. _He needs to hear it from her, lest he think it a falsehood_.

“She may bid him return here, rather than travel home herself.”

“If we’re fortunate, she will. It will be better for us to have him here at the capital. That way, we avoid the impression we went behind his back.” _The less tinder this wildfire sees, the better_.

“We went behind his back,” Stannis asserted.

Jon sighed. He felt old and tired. “You know what I mean.” 

Stannis’ reluctance was apparent but he nodded. “Very well.”

They spoke a while longer, of matters of little import but great interest to them personally. The weather was exceptional, the early afternoon sun warm, the late summer skies clear. It was a pleasant while and Jon would never have thought it be his last.

When Jon finally rose to send a raven, which he had been meaning to send all morning, a chill ran down his spine as he stepped out of the sun and into the shadowed cloister surrounding the fair garden. He made his way to the Grand Maester’s tower and by the time he had climbed the steps to the rookery, sweat beaded on his forehead. But this time, the sweat was cold. As he watched the raven fly north, he bid it make haste. War was coming. He could feel it in his bones. And not for the first time, he wondered if he was to be the instigator once again.


	6. JAIME II

_You hate it, don’t you?_ Jaime thought, amused.

‘His Splendid Majesty, King Robert Baratheon,’ the herald had said. ‘King Robert Baratheon, and Her Grace, Queen Consort Cersei *Baratheon*.’

His sister loathed being deprived of their family name. Nothing of it was visible, her lovely face a pleasant mask, but Jaime knew her flawless teeth clenched behind her painted lips. The irony drew his smile askew. _Not a frustration our dear good-mother faces._

The King and Queen were resplendent in court regalia of precious saffron and brilliant yellow, edged with the sumptuous summer fur of stout. Crowns of gold rested on their brows, diamonds glittering in the branches of artfully arranged antlers. 

The royal children followed at their heels. Prince Joffrey wore a gilded breastplate polished to a sheen, a rearing stag embossed across the chest. His red, velvet cotehardie sat high on the hips. Its sleeves were scalloped and fashionably long. Princess Myrcella held on to the crook of his arm and waved politely at all those they passed. Her skirts were delicate samite, a gold-threaded forest theme embroidered onto the elegant ochre cloth. Prince Tommen came behind them, Kevan’s little sister Helanna on his arm. Tommen wore a fitted saffron-and-ochre banded doublet, with puffed and slashed sleeves. A belt of gilded, dancing stags sat around his waist. Helanna beamed like the sun in her goldenrod kirtle, frolicking beaded lions tumbling along the hem.

If you saw them like this, you’d be forgiven to think the King and Queen had four children. In shades of yellow and her blond hair done up just as his sister’s, Helanna appeared every inch a princess herself. She mimicked Cersei’s elegant poise, her small hand nought but brushing Tommen’s elbow. Tiny and dignified, she followed the Queen with all the grace her five years could muster.

Jaime saw the way Cersei smiled at her as they passed. She favoured the girl. It was plain as day that she much preferred having a baby sister over a little brother. He’d almost forgotten about the ugly, spiteful dwarf until Lord Tywin had brought him with to court. If only he’d left with their father, too. _Why did you suffer Tyrion to stay and embarrass us all?_

Jaime gave Kevan’s shoulder a gentle squeeze, to draw his attention: “Look, there’s your Lady Mother.”

He regretted his words instantly, for it was not their Lord Father who accompanied Lady Loren. _Speak of the Stranger and he’s sure to appear_, he thought. It was their ill-begotten brother, Tyrion.

Lady Loren had changed out of the dour garments she’d worn this morn and into court finery. Though not the crimson dress with the bantam lions and panels of gold cloth, bless the Seven. She wore, instead, a fitted gown of forest green velvet with tapered sleeves and voluminous skirts. It sported a foliage motif with a prominent copper-threaded pattern of broad-leafed trees. Her braids had been bunned, caught in a crespinette under a delicate coronet cradling a ruby to her brow. It was a match to those set as gleaming red eyes in the lioness pendant around her pale neck. A great cloak of burgundy brocade lined with stout rested heavily upon her shoulders, fastened across her breast with a broad band of goldwork. It was too long for her, sweeping the red sandstone. And it was straight-edged like a man’s cloak would be rather than round-edged like a woman’s train should be. _Father’s_, Jaime concluded. 

He glanced at Kevan and those painfully familiar eyes, trained on his mother. They followed her across the throne room, his head unmoving, eyes unblinking, just as Jaime had seen their father do. Though unlike Lord Tywin, there was a sadness to the firm set of Kevan’s small mouth. _He’ll come down later, Kev,_ he thought. _You know he abhors mingling._

Jaime’s gaze returned to Lady Loren, and he watched Tyrion escort her towards them. _It was you, wasn’t it? You bid Tyrion stay, and Father humoured it._

Behind them came other members of the royal court, including his sister’s tittering ladies-in-waiting, and their husbands or betrothed if they had one. Loren’s ladies accompanied them for he recognised their niece Lynara, Ser Brokken’s oldest daughter. And heir, because the Bear of Lannisport had no sons. He did have several daughters. Three, four, _six_? Jaime wasn’t sure. Plenty to go around. Lynara had the freckles and sea-green eyes of the Lannisport Lannisters but hair as dark as a mountain lion and skin a Dornish beige. Sea creatures wrought in blue ink tangled around the maid’s neck and down across her collar bones. Jaime tore his gaze away from her. Renly Baratheon, in the company of Ser Loras Tyrell, as ever, came some distance behind her. Jocelyn Bywater had been joined by her brother, Ser Jacelyn. Jaime couldn’t help but smirk. At least their own father had no sense of humour. He fondly imagined Cersei’s spectacular fit if they’d had coordinating names. And they were twins, no less. _Wouldn’t want people to laugh at us, would we, Father?_

Lady Loren had halted and now stood with her back towards them. Across the burgundy of the great cloak reared a rampant lion wrought in rare couched goldwork. Touched with age, perhaps, but no less fine for it. Beneath it, in the old Westerland dialect, their House’s words shimmered with the movement of the heavy cloth: ‘Hear Mine Roare’. _Loud and clear_, Jaime thought, not unkindly. It was definitely Lord Tywin’s. _Wouldn’t want anyone to presume to forget who you wed._

She was speaking to the Hand of the King, Lord Jon Arryn. Jaime could tell by the ample silhouette of Lady Lysa framing his good-mother with the sky blue of House Arryn. The high-strung woman went nowhere near court unless her Lord Husband was with.

"Lord Jon. I apologise,” Lady Loren said as they approached. She held on to Tyrion’s arm a fraction higher above the elbow than was customary, making the courtesy work despite their height difference. “I hadn’t known there was a council our King was meant to attend. I would have suggested a different moment."

Lord Jon smiled. "You couldn't have known."

“Still, I apologise.”

_Does Father know you’ve added grovelling to your repertoire?_ Jaime thought. Lord Jon was his father’s peer, she owed him no obeisance.

Lord Jon inclined his head in acceptance. “How was the hawking?”

“Pleasant. The hares were plenty and the weather was good.”

“My Lady,” Jaime said as they joined them.

“Ser Jaime, Kevan.” Lady Loren turned to greet them and gave her young son a mother’s critical once-over, appraising his appearance in his miniature armour, the smallest of great helms under his arm. And the dagger at his belt. Jaime saw her eyes squint as she caught sight of it and knew trouble was afoot.

“Good noon, Lady Mother.” Kevan bowed for his mother, then added: “Brother Tyrion.”

“You look a warrior of legend, little brother.” Tyrion inclined his head. “Though you make me sound like the ugliest Septon to ever take vows.”

Kevan pursed his lips. “Uncle Tyrion, then? Does that suit better?”

Tyrion put his palms together. “Yes.”

Kevan smiled. “OK, uncle Tyrion.”

Tyrion ruffled his golden curls in response, smiling as well. Jaime frowned, but the revelation slipped beneath the surface of his consciousness before he could grasp it.

"Hello, Lord Hand, " Kevan said then and turned to Lord Jon Arryn.

"Lord Junior, how fine you look, " Lord Jon said with a grandfather’s affection. It was an old form of address for the heir apparent of a Great House. Jaime glanced at Tyrion, whose amiable expression didn’t so much as waver.

“It looks like Pa’s armour!” Kevan puffed out his chest, hand to the pommel of his glittering dagger. 

Tyrion chuckled. “You don’t say, I hadn’t noticed.”

Lord Jon’s fond smile deepened. “May it serve you just as long and as well.”

“Lady Lysa, how is young Robert?” Lady Loren said, drawing her into the conversation. She’d been skulking behind her elderly husband, an admirable feat for a woman her size.

“Resting.” Lady Lysa’s tone was curt.

“May Robert and I ride this afternoon?” Kevan asked. When Lady Lysa didn’t answer, he turned to Lord Jon. Jaime could tell he wanted to add ‘please’, but didn’t. It seemed their father had succeeded after all.

“If you go accompanied and Robert should like it, then yes.” Lord Jon glanced at Lady Loren.

“Ser Gnaeus or Ser Brynmor will accompany them.”

Lord Jon nodded. “Very well. I will ask Robert and send a servant to let you know.”

Kevan grinned broadly.

Lady Loren her smile deepened, but it had left her dark eyes. “What a beautiful dagger, how did you come by it, dear heart?”

_Here it comes,_ Jaime thought.

Kevan pulled up the dagger scabbard-and-all for his mother to inspect. “A gift!”

“Who gave it to you?” She caught Jaime’s gaze.

_You mean who let you carry it_, Jaime thought. _That was me. He’s near ten. I was scarce six when Father permit me a quill knife._

Kevan studied the crowd and then pointed at Jocelyn, with the absence of decorum only a child or fool could muster unashamed. “Ser Jacelyn’s sister, over there.”

Heads turned at Kevan’s pointing gesture. Not many, but enough to tip off the knight and his sister. For when Lady Loren turned to see, Jocelyn curtsied, and her brother saluted. _Played right into their cards, little man,_ Jaime thought. Then he noticed Ser Addam had joined the Bywaters and tried to catch his gaze. 

Tyrion took the blade from its scabbard and weighed it. “Good balance,” he said to Kevan and then added with a glance at Jaime: “Someone taller than us could throw it with accuracy.”

Jaime clenched his teeth and forced a smile onto his face. It seemed he wasn’t the only one that had noticed Lady Loren’s displeasure. _She ought to use you for target practice,_ Jaime thought. He fondly recalled the market fair during Joffrey’s name day. And the dwarf maid who had smilingly let her associate outline her in daggers. _Accidents happen._

“A fine gift,” Lady Loren said. Though her eyes told Jaime this wasn’t the last he’d heard of it. 

“And a soldier’s pay thrice-over,” Tyrion said as he handed the weapon back to Kevan, who returned it to its scabbard with care.

Jaime caught the look between his stunted brother and good-mother. The Bywaters were the least of their problems, in his opinion. He ought to tell her about the little maid, Lord Manning’s daughter, and Kevan’s budding interest in her.

"Great Lady." Ser Addam Marbrand bowed to his liege lord's wife as he joined them. He wore a leather doublet, dyed a deep green, with an intricate pattern of trees embossed on its asymmetric revers. Its shade contrasted sharply with his copper hair, tied with a matching ribbon.

Lady Loren inclined her head in acceptance. “Ser Addam, it has been too long. How is your Lady Mother? Improving, do tell?”

There was something wrong with Lady Elaine Marbrand? Jaime couldn’t recall Addam having mentioned anything. 

“The fever has broken, praise the gods. She’s frail yet but improving.”

Addam smiled, a gesture Lady Loren returned as she clasped her hands in front of her. “That is certainly good to hear, we were much concerned.”

_We? You,_ Jaime scoffed in his thoughts. _I doubt Father cares about the cow stupid enough to name her daughter Ellyn._

“She bid me tell you that she’d much love your company, and the children’s, if it suits My Lady.”

_I bet she does, and Lord Damon even more so,_ Jaime thought. The Marbrands were one of his father’s chief bannermen. Addam his younger sister, Ellyn, was of an age with Joffrey, or thereabout.

Lady Loren’s tone was diplomatic but not unfriendly when she spoke. “I should hope we find the time. I will certainly bring it to my Lord Husband’s attention. It’d be good to see Ashemark now that its renovations have been completed, too.”

Addam inclined his head. “My Lady Mother will be pleased to hear.”

Would Lord Damon have foisted his sister Darlessa on their father, if he had known Lord Tywin had been amenable to rewedding? And Addam to Loren, perhaps? Granted, Addam was his friend, not hers, but he could see it if he squinted just right. Amusement tugged at the corner of his lips. Cersei would have absolutely preferred a match between their father and Addam’s aunt. Lady Darlessa was a rush mat.

“Do you want to be able to wield that dagger, little brother?”

Tyrion’s words snapped Jaime out of his musings. _Of course, he wants to, and I will sho—._

“I can show you?” Tyrion added but glanced at Loren. Jaime frowned. The dwarf was hardly a warrior, what could he teach Kevan that Jaime couldn’t teach him better?

The smile returned to Lady Loren’s eyes as she glanced at Tyrion, and Jaime didn’t like it at all. “That would be lovely, don’t you agree, Kevan?” she said.

Kevan grinned widely. “Yes!”

Jaime meant to protest, but no words came, and the moment passed. He stared mutely as Kevan held up the dagger to Tyrion. They were talking, but he didn’t hear. _Why does she want you to teach Kevan? You’re not a warrior. I am. I will show him._

Tyrion smiled. “It is done, then. I will teach you.”

They spoke for a while longer as Jaime’s thoughts wandered. Whomever Kevan would squire to, he could teach him better. No doubt, it would be their uncle, Ser Kevan. It wasn’t usual for a boy to squire to a different knight than the one he’d paged with. Ser Kevan was old though, and gentle. His little brother needed to be taught by a true warrior. Surely, Father would approve if he took this task upon him.

Jaime’s attention returned to the conversation when Lady Loren broached a topic he had expected to come up sooner.

“I saw the ships at dry dock,” she said. 

_I bet you did,_ Jaime thought. The West Company of Shipwrights had been commissioned to patch the strength of the Royal fleet. They were based in Lannisport and chaired by her brother. Who better to do a casual foreman’s inspection? And, as the endeavour had been generously financially accommodated for by his father, no doubt Lord Tywin wanted to know how the crown spent his loan. Two flies, one stone.

Jon gave her a surprised but pleased smile. “They are coming along nicely - you visited, My Lady?”

“You can take our Mother from a ship, but you cannot take the ships from our Mother,” Tyrion quipped.

_Bootlicker_, Jaime thought.

Loren chuckled smoothly. “It’s true, I do love the sight of a well-rigged ship.” She and Tyrion shared an amused look. Jaime frowned, feeling left out. “Carracks, though?” she added. “I must confess, I had expected larger vessels.”

Jon grimaced and clasped his hands behind his back. “We considered it, but it would require additional wharves, and that would involve rebuilding docks.”

“And throttle debarkation.”

Jon nodded. “Just so.”

“The northern shoal could be dug, the material used to fill an additional dock. If lined with stone blocks, it’ll hold. We did it for Lannisport, a few years ago, with rubble from the mines. The summer storms have come in, and so far, they’ve held.”

“A fine idea, though we’d be hard-pressed for bedrock here,” Jon said.

Lady Loren’s expression fell. “Oh shoot, this is true, the fine sandstone under our feet was imported, wasn’t it?”

“No shortage of rubble at the Rock, now that its Lord has returned,” Tyrion chuckled. He raised his hands in an apologetic gesture even before Lady Loren spoke.

“Tyrion.”

“I apologise, Mother, I should have recognised my dear Father has fossilised into the finest of limestones.”

She gave him a look. “Do not make me smack you in public, Tyrion.”

Tyrion chortled. “I’d threaten my dear Father would be displeased, but I dare say he’d love you more for it.”

Lady Loren shook her head in disapproval, but Jaime realised she wasn’t angry, not truly. Indeed, not like their Father would have been. She put a hand on Tyrion’s shoulder as she turned to Lord Jon, who had the decency to look uncomfortable. “Pay no heed to my son, My Lord. He forgot to put on his motley this morn.”

Tyrion smiled that self-deprecating smirk of his and bowed deeply. To his displeasure, Jaime discovered amusement flitting across his good-mother’s face when Tyrion provided her with a look of theatrical petulance. Jaime didn’t think he was upset at being reprimanded either.

The fond smile Lord Jon had previously given Kevan returned to his wizened face. “Sons can be troublesome.”

“Particularly when their Father is away.” Loren gave Tyrion a tart look, who lolled out his tongue like the simpleton he most assuredly wasn’t.

“Nothing like the threat of decapitation to keep the children in line.”

This time, his jape snuffed the laughter from her eyes, and her tone could have cut glass. “Tyrion, enough.”

To Jaime’s astonishment, his idiot brother did as he was bid. Tyrion dropped his farse like a hotcake, returning to his preceding sober demeanour. “The bedrock of the northern cliffs isn’t suitable?” he asked Lord Jon.

From the corner of his eyes, Jaime saw Cersei glide towards them. He stepped aside to pointedly make a place for her.

“My Queen.” He inclined his head as their gazes crossed. Her emerald eyes smiled at him and him alone.

“Ser Jaime,” Cersei said tenderly.

“Queen Cersei.” Lord Jon bowed his head humbly.

Cersei glanced away from Jaime and to the Hand of the King. “Lord Jon,” she said, her tone as warm as the wastes beyond the Wall.

Loren tilted her head a courtly fraction, and Kevan made a stunningly precise bow. He kept his small spine straight, his shoulders correctly squared. Jaime wondered if their father had made him practise it wearing a breastplate as well - to prevent unseemly bending at the back.

Tyrion gave his bow just enough flourish to ridicule, and the firm set of his sister’s jaw told Jaime she’d noticed too.

“Where might our gracious King be? For we wish to express our gratitude, don’t we, Kevan?” Lady Loren said as she made room for her boy beside her good-daughter and Queen.

“My gratitude is great, Queen Cersei,” Kevan said differentially with another perfect bow.

Jaime caught the contempt flitting across his sister’s face, but it was gone before it was fully there. Then she smiled, and her emerald eyes sparkled with courtly grace. “A great feast for a great boy.”

Kevan beamed as he turned to his mother, pleased with himself by the look of it. The corners of Cersei’s smile had turned down. Jaime smiled, amused with his twin despite himself. _You really do prefer a little sister, don’t you?_

Jon coughed politely. “The stone of the northern cliffs is too porous.”

“I see, that is a shame,” Tyrion said, and he sounded like he meant it.

When Lady Loren turned her attention to Lord Jon, Jaime saw his sister didn’t. She glared at their good-mother. No, not at her, exactly. _You’d wear it every hour of every day if he permitted you,_ Jaime thought, amused. He had realised that she scowled at the great cloak Loren wore, and the proud rampant lion upon it. She loathed being deprived of their family name, and she detested being trapped in yellow and stags. He imagined his sister wearing it to court. How it would upset everybody. He smiled.

“How is the sea in the bay, this time of year?” Lady Loren asked.

Lord Jon leaned his head sideways, a thoughtful frown creasing his brow. “Quieter than the open shores of the west, I imagine.” 

“You could attempt wooden extensions? From what I saw of the Kingswood this morn, there’s old enough growth for sturdy wood.”

Jon rubbed his chin. “It might be done.”

“Lord Hand, if I may?” Kevan piped up, his little nose scrunched up.

Lord Jon gave the boy a grandfatherly smile. “You may, Lord Junior.”

“You could convert one of the docks and lower demurrage fees. Trade will dwindle, at first, but as word spreads, they will return. Merchants won’t mind longer laytime if they aren’t levied for it.”

Understanding dawned on Lord Jon’s old face as he listened.

“You could lower demurrage drastically, really.” Kevan’s nose scrunched up further. “Temporarily, of course! But it might boost the volume of trade enough to recoup the incurred losses of the initial wane through the import tariffs.”

Lord Jon seemed impressed. “Thank you, Kevan. That is an outstanding idea.”

Kevan beamed, puffing his chest out with pride as he looked at his mother. Loren put her arm around his shoulders and drew him against her side. Kevan hugged his mother’s waist without shame.

“His father taught him well,” Lord Jon said.

“I am pleased my Lord Husband sets aside time to teach his children.” Lady Loren inclined her head at the compliment. Then added as she gave Kevan a slight squeeze against her, leaning towards him: “And that my dear children are willing to learn.”

“Ma,” Kevan replied with the pitched drawl of an abruptly embarrassed child. She chuckled and obliged, letting go of him. A rock settled in Jaime’s stomach at the endeared look she and Lord Jon exchanged.

Lord Jon started to speak, but Cersei interjected: “Prince Joffrey has been actively studying trade politics of late.”

Jaime caught, from the corner of his eyes, the askance glance their good-mother send the Hand. Lord Jon frowned, and they both studied Cersei. 

“Our Crown Prince his opinion, on the adjusting of demurrage, would have been most welcome,” Tyrion said, his wry amusement speaking volumes. “Had he seen fit to be here.”

Cersei folded her hands into her voluminous sleeves, a pleasant smile on her fair face but murder in her eyes as she turned to their dwarf brother. “It is a shame Lord Tywin had to leave court so soon, and without you.”

Tyrion crooked an eyebrow. “I imagine he missed his grandson’s delightful company three steps out of the gate.”

Lady Loren put her hand on Tyrion’s shoulder, who glanced up. Her tone was diplomatic when she spoke: “No doubt our Prince would have provided my Lord Husband with outstanding council.”

Cersei lifted her chin. “As he does his Lord Father, our benevolent _King_ when attending to him at his small councils.” 

_You sure it's wise to lie, sweet sister?_ Jaime thought. He held his tongue. If Cersei was set on jousting with their good-mother, he’d rather not get mauled in the midfield.

“Observation is a boy’s best teacher, Lord Tywin always says.” Loren’s smile was every inch as polite as her tone. “He ever brings Kevan with him to learn.”

Jaime doubted that was a lie.

Cersei cocked her head sideways, her smile bemused. “Really? I had not heard.”

“No?” Lady Loren’s dark eyebrows rose, then settled back into a simper. “He must have been occupied discoursing with the _King_.”

Jaime sucked in air through his teeth: she went there. Displeasure settled across his sister’s sunlit face like a white raven’s shadow. How had she imagined this would go down? _She spars with wilier foes, Cersei._

Cersei raised her chin. “All that occupies the King is hunting and wanting.”

“Men,” Loren said and gave a tame shrug of the shoulders. Then she folded her hands across her lion-crested girdle. “I do ever so apologise for my Lord’s negligence. Do you wish for me to convey your dissatisfaction to him?”

_Let it go, Ce-Ce,_ Jaime thought. He’d not yet forgotten the figurative claw marks on their _father_’s cheek.

Kevan glanced at Tyrion. The dwarf gave a subtle shake of his head, mouthing a ‘no’. Kevan’s nose wrinkled with displeasure. And then he turned to Lord Jon, touching the older man’s arm to draw his attention to himself. And away from the women. 

“Lord Jon, if I may.”

“Yes, Kevan?” Lord Jon turned to him. Lady Loren’s expression became ever so quietly smug at her son’s intervention. She turned to him too, leaving his sister all but facing their backs.

“I know it may not be possible, and I understand if it is—.” Kevan averted his gaze as if searching the sandstone floor for an answer. An affectionate smile appeared on Lord Jon’s face as he patiently waited for the boy to finish his request. Kevan glanced at his mother, then to Lord Jon. “May I join too? The small council, I mean. I want to learn.”

Lord Jon’s reaction was hesitant. Jaime frowned at the furtive glance he cast Cersei, who clenched her jaw and lifted her chin. 

_Honesty last longest, sister,_ he thought. _The minute our little brother joins small councils on the regular, the minute our dear Father knows you’ve stuffed him like a summer hare._

“I will bring it to the lords and our King’s attention.” Lord Jon’s expression was guarded but warm. “No promises.”

“I understand, Lord Hand,” Kevan said, though he grinned broadly. He slipped his hand into his mother’s and beamed up at her.

“That would be very generous of Lord Jon,” Lady Loren said to her son. She gave his hand a light squeeze. Jaime could think of someone else who would be well-pleased to hear his son will sit in with the elderly Hand.

Kevan nodded, a contemplative frown wrinkling his nose. “Mayhap Father can teach Robin in return?”

“Robert,” Lady Lysa interjected. Jaime flinched at her shrill pitch. He had all but forgotten she was there.

Lady Loren smoothly brushed over it. “A fair offer, I should think,” she said and looked at Lord Jon.

Kevan pulled his head back at Lady Lysa’s reprimand, his boyish mirth turning into a thin line. “He likes Robin better.”

Seeing her son take the bit between his teeth, Loren gave Kevan a warning look that needn’t be followed by a reminder who she’d tell. “Kevan.”

Jaime suppressed a smile. _Nothing like the threat of decapitation to keep the children in line._

“My apologies, Lady Lysa.” Regrettably, Kevan’s tone was anything but repentant. He gave her a doggedly disapproving look that Jaime knew all too well.

Lord Jon raised his hands in a placating gesture. “I would be honoured if Lord Tywin would find time to teach my son, but I understand if he cannot.” 

Jaime stifled a chortle. That was nought but a fancy way of saying: ‘please, don’t.’

Cersei took Loren’s arm in a sisterly gesture that was glaringly at odds with her earlier behaviour. “I am certain my beloved good-mother can convince even our Lord Father.”

Lady Loren’s gaze flicked to Cersei before returning to Lord Jon, her thoughts overlain by a mildly entertained smile. “I will inform Lord Tywin.”

Lord Jon’s face tightened, but he inclined his head in acquiescence. Cersei smiled, truly smiled, with unveiled delight at that. Jaime loved that smile. Though he wondered why she wanted Robert Arryn at Casterly Rock. Years ago, when fostering Tommen with their father had been proposed, she had raised all seven hells. He’d thought she’d be keen to be a maternal influence on the only son and heir of the Eyrie now that he’d come to court.

“Our stations are lofty but busy ones,” Lord Jon said diplomatically. “If Lord Tywin cannot fit it among his duties, you must not trouble him to.”

Jaime frowned, then shrugged it off. He’d probably already arranged to foster the boy with a banner.

Lady Loren laid a hand across Cersei’s, in the crook of her arm. A politely amused smile lit her eyes. “It is a worthy cause to trouble my Lord Husband over.”

Jaime glanced at Lord Jon, stifling a grin. _My condolences, dissuading them._

Tyrion flashed her a crooked grin. “Mother has a short-list of things she’s willing to risk the tranquillity of the Rock, and all our night rest, over. Children rank high among them.”

Loren gave him an affectionate but no less quelling look. “My Lord Husband may tutor young Robert together with his grandson.”

Cersei let go of her arm as if stung.

“Casterly Rock is so far.” Lady Lysa had let go of her Lord Husband to wring her hands.

Lord Jon looked from Loren to Cersei and back, surprise plainly on his face. “Prince Joffrey will stay at Casterly Rock?”

“He will,” Loren said before Cersei could articulate a protest. “Lord Tywin should like his grandson’s company a while longer, and it will be good for the Prince to get to know the various regions of his future kingdom.”

_Was that a lie?_ Jaime frowned. He couldn’t recall if it were mentioned before this morn. Though that didn’t mean anything, they could have written.

Lord Jon nodded. “It is only right to start with the lands of his mother’s kin.”

“I agree,” Loren said with a polite smile that his sister didn’t return. “It will be no trouble at all for Robert to come, as well. He can join us when we return to Casterly Rock.”

“In that case, I would be much honoured,” Lord Jon said. Though his expression was more suited to a man resigned to losing a war. Instead of one who had secured a prestigious place for his heir to ward.

Lady Lysa visibly blanched.

“The honour is ours,” Lady Loren said with a neat incline of her head that was almost a small obeisance. 

“No.” Lady Lysa’s sharp tone shred the polite formalities.

Lord Jon actually flinched, and Loren’s smile faltered for an instant.

“Robert will return home, with me,” Lysa added with a finality abnormal for the timid woman.

Lady Loren’s tone pitched lightly, just enough for sympathy: “Tion would have been thrilled.”

“Lysa, my dear,” Lord Jon started.  
  
“No, I won’t hear,” Lady Lysa said as she shook his touch.

“I shall inform my Lord Husband.” Lady Loren favoured Lord Jon a glance that Jaime thought rather convincing in its helpless resignation. Displeasure returned to his sister’s emerald eyes as surely as Lord Jon’s filled with an edge of panic. 

“Please do not be troubled just yet.” Lord Jon gave Loren an apologetic smile. “My Lady Wife and I will discuss the matter, and send word. Won’t we, Lysa?”

Lady Lysa’s hands wrung with such strength that her soft, rosy knuckles turned pale and her fingertips bright red. “No. No, he’s not going, Jon.”

Loren took a step towards them. She held her hands in an open, welcoming gesture. “Our climate might do Robert’s humours good for the sunset sea is known for its bracing and restorative air. And he can see different sights, learn from different councils.”

“He has enough tutors. _At home_,” Lysa said without an inch of decorum.

Lady Loren smiled and reached a hand to Lysa’s shoulder. “I understand how you feel, I do. I would prefer to keep Kevan with me, too. We must resist, or we might spoil our boys.”

“Your boy.” Lysa pulled away from her touch. “My son needs me.”

Jaime felt a small hand slip into his and saw Kevan had drawn to his side, away from the arguing women.

Lady Loren frowned. “A son needs space, like a tree, to grow steady and strong.”

“Robert has all the space he needs.”

“Indeed?” Loren’s frown creased deeper, the doubt on her face as clear as glass.

“How dare you judge me?” Lysa snapped, her tone pitching. “Your precious boy was fathered on the wrong side of the sheets by the old lion.”

Courtiers mingling nearby glanced up from their conversations at her outburst.

“Lysa!” Jon said in shocked tones. Men in the livery of House Arryn promptly approached, no doubt urged by their lord’s tone. She was making a scene. An extremely embarrassing scene and a potentially disastrous one should Lord Tywin hear of it. Jaime smiled. And he would.

Loren grit her teeth. Jaime saw it, the muscles under her freckles shifting. “My Lord’s honour—.”

“You dare speak to _me_ of _honour_?” Lysa balled her fists at her side.

“Lysa, please calm down, we will discuss this together, later.” Lord Jon took a gentle hold of his Lady Wife’s shoulders, but she shook his touch.

“You, who bedded a lord at war like a common whore?!”

Lady Loren’s expression froze solid as the Wall. 

“_Lysa_.” Lord Jon turned to Loren, aghast, as two Arryn household guards attempted to usher their lady away. He inclined his head, his expression pained. “My deepest ap—.”

“He’d have never wed you if that wretched boy had been a girl child!” Lady Lysa shouted.

“You’re wrong,” Kevan said, loudly. Jaime felt him squeeze his hand tighter. “Pa loves Helanna too!”

Lady Loren caught his gaze, but the boy did not repent, his small chin jutting forward as he watched the Lord and Lady of the Eyrie leave.

“Let’s go outside for a spell, gather our humours,” Tyrion said and offered Loren his arm. Jaime wondered if that was code for retreating to their father’s presence. He still hadn’t come down. For a moment, it seemed as if she would protest, but then she folded. And if that wasn’t proof, Jaime didn’t know what was.

After they took their leave, various lesser lords and ladies came to speak with them, but Jaime paid them little attention as they waited for the ceremony to start. His sister had left to mingle, her ladies in tow. He saw King Robert, here and there, among the courtly crowd. Always precisely on the other side of the hall than his Queen. Every so often, Jaime glanced at the oaken doors. They perennially opened. Kevan’s gaze would shoot up when the herald announced a Lord’s arrival. And his crestfallen expression when it wasn’t followed by their father’s name cut Jaime deeper than even Valyrian steel could.

“Nervous?” Ser Addam asked, nudging Kevan’s shoulder.

“No.” Kevan shook his head, but the pitch of his voice betrayed him.

“It’ll be all right, you’ll see.” At Kevan’s nervous glance, Addam added: “Not even your big brother had this great a feast.”

Kevan’s eyes widened at Jaime. “Really?”

“It wasn’t small, let that be clear, but this is something else in scale entirely,” Jaime replied with good humour. 

When Ser Barristan caught Jaime’s gaze, beckoning him with a small jerk of his head, he knew the moment had come. He saw his fellow Kingsguard were making their way towards the foot of the iron throne. Kevan fidgetted beside him, fingering the pommel of his new dagger and the straps that attached it to his belt. Jaime gave his shoulder a firm squeeze. Kevan looked up, and their gazes crossed. He marshalled his confidence for them both. The King would personally commend Kevan. Jaime knew his father, he wouldn’t miss an opportunity to gloat.

Jaime made his way towards the iron throne then, taking up the space left for him beside the steps. King Robert separated himself from the crowd of insipid courtiers around him.

“My King,” Ser Barristan said and bowed as King Robert approached them. Jaime and the other Kingsguard followed their Lord Commander’s lead.

“Where is my beloved Queen?” Robert’s smile was forced.

“Here I am, my King.” Cersei appeared from a cluster of noblewomen, sweeping towards Robert with dramatic flare. She smiled ever so sweetly, but it fell a long way short of her eyes. Robert offered her his arm, which she took as she lifted the tip of her voluminous skirts with a dainty flick of her free hand. And then they ascended the steps of the iron throne together.

Ser Barristan gestured at Ser Arys and then Jaime to follow them. 

It was a long way up, and Jaime could hear Robert’s laboured breath as he followed them up the steps. The heaving draws were unkindly accented by the sharp snap of Cersei’s slippers.

When they reached the top, the two knights took up their positions at either side of the throne. As the King and Queen turned towards the gathered crowd of nobles below, the oaken doors opened. Jaime’s gaze snapped up. He blinked against the afternoon sun flooding in, stinging his eyes. He glimpsed Lady Loren, and his spirit soared. For beside her went a man too tall to be his wretched brother - Lord Tywin had arrived.

The doors closed, the sunlight faded, and his heart stopped as abruptly as a raven hitting a windowpane in full flight. It was not his father, after all. It was Lord Jon who accompanied Loren to where Ser Addam and Kevan stood.

“My Lords, my Ladies,” King Robert began, his deep bariton rolling through the throneroom like thunder. “Today is a momentous occasion. Perhaps, the great feast gave it away.” There was polite laughter at the King’s characteristic humour, but he waved his hand, gesturing for silence once more. Jaime drew in a deep breath, through his nose, as the gaping feeling in his chest threatened to swallow him whole. “Many are the trials from childhood to adulthood. Bravest, no doubt, the very first steps. To let go of your mother’s skirts and turn to face the world on your own.”

Jaime focussed his gaze on Kevan, standing between Lady Loren and Lord Jon. Tyrion had joined them, too. He timed his breath, willing his heartbeat to slow, to steady. 

King Robert raised his hand and indicated the far end of the hall, where they stood. And the crowd parted as one to create a path. “Today is not any squiring,” King Robert boomed. “For it is the child of one of my Lords Paramount who will take this first step on the road from boyhood to manhood. It is my honour to call to me Kevan Lannister, son of Lord Tywin Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock, Warden of the West and Shield of Lannisport.”

Jaime saw Robert’s gaze flick to the doors. Even he still expected Lord Tywin to come through them, appearing at the mention of his name prompt as the Stranger to a sick man’s vigil.

He didn’t.

“May the Seven grace the West,” King Robert concluded without missing a beat and sat down upon the Iron Throne. Cersei seated herself precisely in the ornate chair drawn up beside it, her hands folded in her lap.

A drum started a slow, dignified beat. Jaime’s gaze returned to the doors as the hurdy-gurdy began its slow, ceremonial tune. The drum played a-pace with his pounding heart, and it wasn’t even his squiring. Where was his father? He couldn’t recall the last time he’d wished for his father’s presence, but he did now. He did now, as he saw his little brother retreat towards his mother at the intimidating pomp of the music. He did now, as he watched Lord Jon place a reassuring hand on his shoulder in their father’s stead.

He stared at the oaken doors, willing Lord Tywin to come through them.

He didn’t.

Marillion sang the ballad of the young knight, an old chanson about a Lord’s young son who won a King’s acclaim, a Father’s love and a sister’s shame. Lord Jon gave Kevan a gentle nudge. Tyrion handed Loren something, a napkin perhaps. Jaime could see her bring it to her face, even at this distance.

Kevan started towards them. Usually, a boy’s father would follow a few paces behind, to deliver his child from innocence to boyhood. Jaime remembered how Lord Tywin had with his squiring, even after all these years. He remembered, also, how frightened he himself had been. Something small and fragile ached in his chest as he watched his little brother cross the vast distance towards them, all alone.

It felt like it took an eternity.

Kevan seemed so small, so vulnerable, in the empty space the crowd had made. The urge to trot down and go to him pulled at every fibre of Jaime's being. Marillion finished his song as Kevan arrived at the foot of the stairs. The music died and then his small footsteps and the ring of his little armour were the only sounds in the hall as he climbed the steps. 

Jaime’s gaze found Loren. She no longer dabbed at her face. Nor did she seem sad. He frowned. And then it dawned on him: it was all pretence. He looked at the closed doors, suddenly certain that when the ceremony reached its peak, their Lord Father would storm in, perhaps horse-and-all. He’d come and claim Kevan as his son. It would engrave the moment in everyone’s memory. Kevan’s delight, Lord Tywin's pride, Lady Loren's swoon, everything. His gaze returned to her._ Did you orchestrate this?_ _Is he, even now, retrieving his horse from the stables?_

Kevan climbed the last step, and then he stood before them. He wore his little great helm though the faceplate was down and Jaime could see the firm set of his small mouth. King Robert rose, and Kevan promptly went down on one knee, his head bowed as he took off his helmet and placed it beside him.

“Kevan Lannister,” King Robert said as he held his hands out before him, palms up, towards the boy kneeling humbly at his feet. “Do you swear to be a faithful squire to the knight you will serve, who is my sworn man and who, in my name, will show you your path to knighthood and fealty as a man grown?”

“I do so swear,” Kevan said and placed his small hands between King Robert’s great paws. “I beseech my King to bestow upon me the name of the knight I shall serve, as humbly and faithfully as I would my King.”

King Robert glanced up at Jaime, and he half expected the fat stag to make an off-colour joke. He didn’t. All he said was a name.

“Ser Jaime Lannister.”

_His_ name.

Jaime immediately kneeled beside his little brother. The words he must speak came to him quickly, unhindered. He had heard them so often. 

“An honour beyond measure, my King.”

_He_ would teach Kevan how to wield his dagger, not their dwarf brother. Jaime smiled. _He_ would show him how to use a blade, how to properly parry, how to ride a horse down the lists and land the killing blow. All of these things, _he_ would teach his little brother. As their father had taught him, he would teach Kevan. He, and no one else.

Yet when he glanced at Kevan, water brimmed those green eyes. He forced himself to smile as winter touched his bowls with icy fingers. He looked past Kevan, at the doors.

His heart pounded in his throat.

_Now_, he thought.

_NOW_.

But the doors were closed, and so they remained.

King Robert broke into a wide grin as he enveloped Kevan’s small hands in his own. “Rise, Kevan the Younger, son of Lord Tywin Lannister. No longer a child, but a squire and a boy grown.”

Around them, the crowd erupted in deafening cheers. They chanted Kevan’s name, maybe. Jaime didn’t hear it. 

He didn’t hear it because he saw Kevan stare at those doors, watched a tear escape his little brother’s control. His little brother, who didn’t cry when he fell. Didn’t cry when he was struck with a wooden sword. When he cut his finger on parchment. When he chafed his knee at play. Time delated as the tear ran down his little brother’s freckled cheek and splattered on his equally little breastplate, glimmering, brief and fragile, before it was irrevocably gone. Jaime’s heartbeat pounded in his ears as disappointment settled on bruises he had forgotten were there.

His gaze snapped to those doors as he felt tears sting his own eyes. Angry words filled his thoughts. He wanted to jump up, to shout them, to scream them at the top of his lungs. Yet only one formed into coherence amid the wildfire blazing in his mind. He choked on his rage and couldn’t even whisper it.

_Why._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to hear music similar to what I described, I was thinking of pavane. In particular, something like Arbeau's 'Belle qui tiens ma vie', of which you can find a nice recording here: https://youtu.be/yI6uVgL30wM
> 
> It is the sort of chanson that was also sung at Tywin & Loren's wedding. It is so stately, so high up the chivalric ladder and proper, and yet so intensely dramatic in its wording. Suits him, I think:  
'Tes beautes et ta grace / et tes divins propos / ont echauffe, la glace / qui me gelait les os.'  
(lit.) 'Your beauty and your grace / and your divine (wise?) words / have thawed, the ice / which had frozen my bones (person?)'


	7. TYWIN II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FYI: Two names were changed  
\- Helaina (Kevan's baby sister) to Helanna  
\- Damon (Loren's younger brother) to Tymen

Rain drummed against the diamond-paned window and ran in rivulets down the mullions. It was near noon, but you wouldn’t think it, the way the storm clouds had shrouded the sun, cloaking the lower baileys in a baleful half-dark. At the mercy of the summer storms, Casterly Rock had lost all its loveliness. The gilded decoration of the sundial whose shadow fell on Bullion square was now as dull as the bedrock it capped. Lacklustre, too, seemed the pale ashlar and red roof tiles of the town houses along the lion's path. Shrouded by the heavy rain, their ancient facades appeared sinister rather than splendorous. Even the summer green tops of the upper Stone Garden hung heavy and dejected, the crimson foliage of the gnarled weirwood an angry purple in the midday gloaming.

The cold permeated through the glass, soaked into the velvet sleeves of Tywin’s cotehardie and ran icy fingers along his skin. Yet he did not draw the brocade hangings in front of the bay window. Instead, he clenched his jaw as his gaze shifted beyond the dreary expanse of his stronghold, to the mountains on the horizon: dim, shapeless masses behind a curtain of rain. It had been three-and-ten days since he had left King’s Landing. Today, his son would be a squire. Tomorrow, they would travel home.

''You think there will be war?'' Ser Brokken’s voice was a ponderous rumble, low but travelling as the distant thunder.

_Do I?_

There had been tensions at the royal court, but then there were always tensions at courts - threats, slights, disagreements - such was their nature. And yet… 

Jon Arryn had been hesitant around him, which was not like the old Hand. Tywin had known him all his life. A cautious man, perhaps, but not a frightful one. Eddard Stark had not been present at all; the only warden not to attend the tourney in honour of the crown prince’s name day. And Cersei, she had not been herself. He used to be the very first person she told when someone had displeased her. This time, she’d danced around his attempts to make her talk with a wilful grace that both irritated and prided him. There had been nothing tangible. No increase in iron import, no stocking up on grain, no swell in the city guard. And yet… 

Tywin’s gaze lingered on the Golden Tooth. The mountain path would become unpassable before long. He clenched his teeth, then glanced across his shoulder at his nephew. 

''You think I would have been Lord of my House for this long if I could not tell when war is afoot?''

Ser Brokken leaned onto his elbow, the scratch of his fingers through his beard loud in the quiet solar. The gold beads around its short braids ticked together. He was a big man, heavy in the shoulders and thick of arms. And the only Lannister to come out dark mahogany in over a century. The previous had been Tywin’s great granduncle’s offspring. He’d wed a Baratheon maid, and all their children had had hair the colour of ironwood. Loren had looked it up in some maester’s record gathering mould in the catacombs. Her older brother always reminded Tywin of the man Robert Baratheon had been — the man he had left wed to his daughter and seated upon the Iron Throne. He pursed his lips. That man was gone.

''The seasons are changing,'' Lady Rowenna said as she pushed her thick braid from her shoulder. Gold glinted amid the dark strands as it fell to well past her waist. A Mormont by birth, she was a stocky woman with the broad features and stolid disposition common among Northerners.

_Indeed._

When his nephew had arrived this morning, he had not come alone. Rowenna Lannister was the current Lady of Lannisport and mother to Brokken and Loren. Wry amusement broke through Tywin’s dour mood. And thus she was his good-mother, despite being two years younger than him.

''And they bring more than rain.'' She studied him with the same dark eyes as her daughter. Tywin ground his teeth and glared at the shrouded mountain pass. Loren could stay with the Leffords if the need arose.

''We could recall the shipwrights.'' A furrow drew Ser Brokken’s eyebrows together above his sea-green eyes. ''Return them to work at home, expand the fleet.''

''No.'' Tywin shook his head. His gaze moved across the solar, past his kin sitting by the fireplace, and came to rest on the hexagonal game board set up near the window on a claw-footed end table intended for such things. Finely carved pieces of dragonbone and goldenheart stood upon it and an ornate screen, depicting a sea battle, stood beside it.

Ser Brokken leaned back in his seat. ''I can write Loren of trouble with the new wharves. Lord Jon is not a man of poor character. He’ll be understanding if he thinks us in need.''

Tywin had no doubt that he would. However, he did not intend to tip his hand if a war was brewing. Least of all to the man who had been the pivot of the last one.

''No,'' he repeated.

He picked up the goldenheart queen. She held an arming sword aloft, a crown fastened to her great helm. His expression softened when he noticed she wore her hair in three wooden braids. Loren had enjoyed herself in King’s Landing. His heartbeat picked up as he remembered how clever she’d been, speaking to Lords and Ladies, a smile here and an empathetic nod there. She could build rapport with anyone. His own lordly court had no shortage of intrigue, but the royal one was a game unto itself. He had allowed her to manoeuvre himself and their children as she saw fit, and she had not disappointed. By the end of the tournament, loud cheers rose from common and noble throats alike every time Kevan climbed his pony or struck the quintain.

''I can take men from other projects,'' Ser Brokken said. ''The waterworks are necessary but not pressing. The redressing of Lannisport’s curtain walls that are not seaside can be postponed.''

''Do so, b—.'' Tywin paused and tilted his head. Footfalls on stone steps. Hard clicks followed by flat boots. Displeasure pulled the corners of his mouth down as he turned towards the hangings obscuring the stairwell.

The gold-threaded samite was jerked aside a moment later, revealing the formidable figure of his sister, Genna. As he had suspected, Kevan followed in her wake. Though shorter than Tywin, his little sister had not been little for some time. Even as a maid, she’d always threatened to overflow her kirtles. When they’d been younger, his peers had composed and sang a bawdy song about it. Though only once.

''My Lord,'' Kevan said, his tone strained and formal. Then he turned to their sister. Took her arm, even. ''Genna, this can wai—.''

The quelling look she shot their younger brother could have skewered a charging boar. Her thick, blond hair, partly done up, accentuated the angry snap of her head. She surveyed the solar as if it were a battlefield before her gaze settled on him. 

''Tywin.''

''Genna.''

He squared his shoulders and held her gaze. ''You have something to say.''

''I do.'' She raised her chin. ''But not to you.''

Tywin squinted as his sister turned to their seated kin. Kevan made a helpless gesture behind her back.

''It is good to see you again, Lady Genna.'' Rowenna’s tone was pleasant, but her dark gaze moved between them. ''Gods tell me, is it news of my daughter?''

Genna shot Tywin a glare from the corner of her eyes. ''After a fashion.''

He rolled his jaw and pursed his lips. He knew what this was going to be about.

Brokken put his hand on his knee and leaned forward. ''What does that mean?'' he demanded.

''Do you know why Loren stayed in King's Landing even though my brother returned home to us?''

Brokken's frown creased deeper as he exchanged a glance with his Lady Mother.

''To discuss future betrothals for my grandson.'' Lady Rowenna’s tone pitched towards the end of her sentence which made her answer sound like a question.

''Such enquiries are more appropriate for a woman to make,'' Kevan said as he had before. He glanced at Tywin. ''Our brother deemed it best she do so on her own—.''

''There was another reason,'' Genna said, her tone sharp. She turned to Tywin, and with her, everyone’s attention. ''A reason for which my _dear_ brother was meant to return to the capital. And then didn’t.''

Kevan fidgeted beside Genna. Suspicion had crept into Rowenna’s dark eyes, and there was an undercurrent to his nephew’s frown that he had not seen in some time. Not since Brokken had first found out he had had relations with his sister, all those years ago. Tywin clenched his jaw. And yet, it was Genna’s gaze that cut deepest. The contempt in her eyes was sharp as Valyrian steel and gutted him where he stood. A muscle in his jaw twitched. ''Kevan is a squire as of today.''

''WHAT.'' Brokken’s voice cracked like thunder.

''A boy is given over by his father, what are you doing here?'' The accusation in Rowenna’s tone drew his lips into a thin line.

Brokken rose. ''Why were we not told?''

Tywin leaned towards his nephew, who pulled his head back. ''He is _my_ son.’’

Brokken rolled his shoulders, turning his head away but not yet breaking their eye contact. ''He needs his father.''

''He needs to stand on his own,'' he said, pointedly flicking his gaze to Rowenna before returning it to his nephew, who squared his jaw and looked away. He heard Kevan’s sharp intake, a split second before the slap rang in his ears and through the quiet solar. Pain flared across his left cheek. Sharp, then tingling.

''You self-righteous prick,'' Genna spat, livid. She held her hand aloft as if of half a mind to strike him again. He met his sister’s angry gaze head-on. Wildfire roared in her green eyes. ''That boy worships you.''

He raised his chin a fraction. She saw it and squinted. He stared her down but she didn’t back away, and the angry silence stretched on.

''Kevan won’t be a boy forever,'' he said.

She looked him up and down with unveiled revulsion. ''You’ve certainly seen to it. Do you mean to abandon every child you have?''

''He’s scarcely abandoned, his mother is with him,'' he said, his hackles rising. 

''Brother, sister,'' Kevan started, but he shrank from their joined glare.

''You, honestly, think he doesn’t need his father beside him for this?''

Tywin’s jaw worked. Memories dredged themselves up of his own father, accompanying him. He shoved them away. ''I only ever had our Lady Mother.''

Lady Jeyne had gone from them not three years ago, outliving their father by near thrice-ten years. When Tytos had been alive, she’d been the Lord of Casterly Rock in all but name. For it was she who held court, settled the disputes of bannermen and forged alliances while their father laughed and drank and whored himself into an early grave. And nothing of value was lost.

''She’d be mortified with your craven behaviour.'' 

''I only ever had Mother,'' he repeated through gritted teeth. ''And I managed fine.''

''Have you?''

Heat flushed his face. 

''Because your son needs brave a critical moment in his young life and you seem to think it is fine to make him do so alone!''

''Get out.'' Anger was rapidly dissolving his ability to think straight. She needed to leave.

''Did Loren agree to this scheme?'' Genna demanded, unperturbed. ''Or will she find out when she has to console her son in front of the whole Seven-damned royal court?''

_Kevan is more solid than that._ His heartbeat pound in his ears. _He will not cry at court._

''Did she?''

_He’s grown. Responsible. More than Jaime ever was at that age._ Tywin fought against the blood-red fury which threatened to consume him. 

''You didn’t tell her, did you?''

He ground his teeth and leaned towards her. ''No.'' 

She did not so much as back an inch.

''I hope she banishes you from her bedchambers the coming decade because you deserve it.''

''Get out,'' he managed through clenched teeth.

''You should have gone.''

''Get. OUT.''

''_Gladly_.''

Genna left with an angry rustle of heavy skirts, the door hangings swaying in her wake. Tywin inhaled through his nose, tried to bridle his temper.

''You left my daughter there while the whole of the Crownlands comes to court?''

His snap cracked like a whip: ''And my _heir!_''

He turned to his kin. Rowenna had risen from her seat. ''You left her alone with two young children.''

''And two hundred household guards.'' He reeled in his roiling temper. ''Even the Hand of the King only maintains scarce fifty from the Eyrie.''

''Soldiers can be bought.''

He forced his jaw to unclench and clasped his hands behind his back. He shoved his anger down, his tone level. ''Ser Gnaeus will never allow it.''

''That sea rat changed loyalties once before,'' she spat. ''What’s to say he won’t—.''

''Mother.'' Brokken put a large hand on her arm. He gave Tywin a wary look.

Rowenna’s gaze snapped to her firstborn. ''Do not 'mother' me. You’re not Lord of Lannisport, yet.''

''The way my Lady Wife has it, he never did change loyalties.'' Tywin pursed his lips as he caught her gaze. ''He’s always been her man. 'First mate', were the words she used.''

''Save the loyalty of rats; she’s on her own,'' she said with a stubborn finality and crossed her arms. Loren was her eldest daughter, he understood her concern. He would feel the same about Cersei. However, Loren was not Cersei — his Lady Wife could hold her own. 

''What if Dorne comes? What then? She is my only proper daughter!'' Rowenna’s dissatisfaction with her younger daughter was no novelty to him. She was wont to equate her to Tyrion. A poor equivalence, in his mind. Poor for Tailyn, that was. 

''Dorne has not come to court in decades.''

''They might come now, hearing your wife and young children are there. _Alone_.''

He squinted. ''My son is with her.''

''Jaime is Cersei’s creature, always has been. I have not yet forgotten what she did.''

Unbidden, the hurt look Loren had given him that day resurfaced. He pushed the memory aside. Straightened, pursed his lips. ''I did not mean Jaime.''

The look of distaste that appeared on her face raised his hackles despite himself. He lifted his chin a fraction, daring her to protest about his decision to give this responsibility to Tyrion.

She didn’t.

''I can ride for King’s landing,'' Brokken said.

He glanced at his nephew. ''That won’t be necessary. She will travel home on the morrow.''

Brokken folded.

_If the pass holds,_ he thought. His gaze returned to the window, to his stronghold and the formless shapes of the mountain range. It rained, still. 

_All things pass, even the summer rains_, he thought as he moved to it. 

He welcomed the cold permeating through the glass. Allowed the midday gloaming to settle comfortably among his thoughts.

_And then, they will become snows._

He stood there, for some time. His kin had settled back into their seats and conversed with his brother.

Rowenna spoke up after a while. ''I want to see my grandson.''

Tywin turned from the window to look at her. He doubted she meant Tion, for she saw the boy every other week.

''It has been nigh a half-year.''

_You’re lucky to know of him at all,_ he thought. After what had happened to little Tygett, his wife no longer wanted anyone to be aware of their infants before their first name day.

She lifted her chin. ''A grandparent should like the company of their grandchildren.''

He squinted at her, then glanced at the mountains. Tomorrow, Loren would travel home. _If no one else, take Joffrey with_.

He then gestured for his kin to follow, and they rose. He led them to his wife’s solar. Rowenna swept past when he held the door open for her. Brokken inclined his head in deference and waited for him to go first, Kevan bringing up the rear. 

Loren’s solar was intimate compared to the one they had come from. There were long-piled Myrish carpets on the floor which muffled their footsteps and the pale ashlar was covered by vibrant wall-hangings depicting scenes of ships and the sea. They had brought the silk tapestries with them from the Free Cities, years ago. She had proclaimed every single one of them `the best one' she’d ever seen, until the next one.

In spite of all its fine trappings, the solar was dominated by a pride of lion cubs. They sat together on a carved ironwood pedestal because lesser wood couldn’t carry the solid gold statues. Each cub bore the name of one of her children and weighed precisely as much as the babe had at birth. He knew because he had cast them himself.

''She still has that, huh?'' Brokken rumbled. The sound of amusement snapped Tywin out of his ruminations.

''Mind your tone,'' he said. ''It’s not merely your sister you speak of.''

''I was surprised, no offence intended.'' His nephew turned his palms up in a supplicating manner. He stood by a bloodwood display case filled to the brim with fossils of the sea. Yet it was not these which had caught his attention but the battered tourney lance and leathern shield that hung on the wall above it. 

''She is proud of her achievements,'' Tywin said.

Rowenna threw him a look like a dagger. ''As she should be.''

''Indeed.''

''My sister is a woman of many talents.'' Affection squinted Brokken’s eyes as he studied the old tournament equipment. It had belonged to him before the smiling weirwood had been painted on the shield with a steady hand.

''I should like to see my grandson, now,'' Rowenna said. ''I know you men can talk of 'jousting' all day.''

Red flushed Kevan’s neck at her double entendre.

''I assure you, my Lady is ever pleased to speak of it, too.'' From the corner of his eyes, Tywin saw the redness creep up through the brush of his brother’s short beard, to tinge his cheeks the crimson of their House.

Rowenna cast them an exasperated look. ''Don’t I know it.'' 

Brokken stifled a smile, and Tywin pursed his lips to hide his own. He wasn’t the only one that had been outwitted by Loren in the aftermath of the Greyjoy rebellion. Busybodies tended to accuse him of the scheme. Although he liked to think little Kevan was a joint effort, he knew that his wife had built, charged, and cleared those proverbial lists before he’d even gotten into the saddle.

''My grandson?'' Rowenna repeated.

''This way,'' Tywin said and led them through the Lady’s chambers. It did not feel right to enter them while his wife wasn’t there, but it was the only way to reach the nursery. Ever since little Tygett had... ever since their boy had left them, she had insisted their infants be accommodated nearby. As if she could have done anything. It was not her fault. He crossed her bedchamber with swift strides. _If it was anyone’s fault—._

A whimper drifted towards him from the nursery beyond the woollen door hangings. Light and frail, almost too faint to hear. His senses snapped taut—_his son_. He moved at once, startling Kevan something terrible. Tywin snatched the thick fabric and pulled it aside. Three long strides and he was at the crib. The infant within had wriggled himself from his crimson swaddles. One chubby little arm and rosy shoulder were free, his tiny fist dug into the soft rabbit hide beneath him. He was on his stomach, his small nose barely above the fur as he tried to push up. His emerald eyes flicked up at his father’s approach. He whimpered and reached for him, tiny fingers grasping.

Tywin immediately picked up his infant son, crimson swaddles and pelt and all. His gaze shot from the hard cot beside the crib to the door hangings and back as the others entered. The rough blankets were tucked. The iron-banded clothing chest underneath locked. The chamber pot empty and clean. _Where are you? If his strength had flagged—._

The nursery itself was a neat closet with a large bay window out to sea, screened by thick woollen drapery to soak up drafts. The crib was a solid pillar of marble, fashioned into a rock with a reclining lioness on top. Her snout was serene, and her feline gaze rested upon the rush-work bassinet enclosed by her stone form. The wicker was shrouded in fine linen, white as froth on the quay. Along the ruffled edge frolicked couched goldwork lion cubs, dulled with age but no less cheerful for it.

''Is something the matter'' Rowenna could not mask her alarm as she swept towards him. The heavy curtains stirred faintly. Due to their movement?

''The window, is it open?'' Tywin said as he bundled the cloth and fur around his son to keep him warm. Loren had made the soft swaddles herself.

Brokken ducked his head past the heavy drapery, then reached behind it. A resounding boom of wood on stone. ''Yes.''

He held his son close and glared at the cot with unveiled loathing, though he allowed the babe to grasp at his face. “She better have thrown herself out.''

''It is storming,'' Kevan said. ''Perchance, she opened it on a crack to relieve the damp, and it blew wide. Fresh air is important for healthy little ones.''

''As is not drowning in their own fluids due to a chill,'' Tywin said, his tone sharp as the gales outside.

Kevan frowned.

Tywin clenched his jaw. They should not have left him with but a maid to mind him. 

Rowenna came to stand beside him.

''How old is he, now?'' She spoke to him but her eyes were on her grandson who intently examined his father’s whiskers while snuggled in his hold.

''Six months and three-and-ten days.''

Rowenna smiled and brushed the boy’s cheek to draw his attention. He glanced away from his father to look at her with bright, curious eyes the colour of spring foliage. ''Such a handsome child.''

Tywin disentangled his son’s little hand from his whiskers with some effort as Brokken and Kevan came to stand with them.

''If he grasps a sword half as tightly, he’ll be a fine knight yet,'' Brokken said. Tywin made a noise that could have gone either way.

''He's got his grandmother’s eyes.'' Rowenna crooked an eyebrow at Kevan. Realising, he added: ''His other grandmother—our Lady Mother.''

''You do look like nana Jeyne, don’t you?'' Rowenna said as she let her grandson grab her fingers. ''Those keen eyes and perfect eyebrows. Might you take Jaime's crown as the fairest boy in all the realm?'' She glanced up at Tywin. Amusement squinted her eyes just so, and it caused something fragile in the vicinity of his stomach to constrict painfully.

''And my sweet sister's freckles,'' Brokken said.

''She does leave those on all of them.'' Rowenna turned to her son, and Tywin managed to unclench his jaw. They were rather endearing. He was positive they gave Kevan his cheeky grin. And his mother too, for that matter.

Brokken brushed his little nephew's downy hair, soft and pale as spun sunlight. The boy glanced at him from the corner of his eyes and smiled back when he smiled. ''I stand corrected, it is not only my sister who left her mark on the babe. Look.'' 

And look they did. He drew the boy's attention again, and the light reflected on a smattering of ochre flecks along the edge of his left eye. Tywin frowned. Curious. His son, Kevan, had them in both like he did and his father before him. Tyrion had mismatched eyes, but he had ever assumed it part of his deformity.

Rowenna smiled. ''Wouldn't want my good-son to doubt they grew of his seed.''

He gave her a tart look. ''I do not question my Lady's fidelity''

Rowenna inclined her head. ''As you say."

The boy squirmed, then whimpered. 

Tywin put him in his crib and untied his swaddles. They were clearly bothering him, or he would not have wriggled free. His son smiled up at him, tiny and pink and perfect. His small limbs whole, his little spine straight and ending where it ought to. But then he noticed the rash along his thigh and small bottom, and how damp his linen wrap was. He'd wet himself. 

_Where is she._ He scowled. The boy's smile became uncertain but then crunched up into the same glare. Tywin turned to the washbasin beside the crib.

Rowenna pushed the wide, fur-lined sleeves of her dress up towards her elbows and picked up the washcloth. ''Let me do it.''

Tywin bristled. ''I can do it.''

She dipped the cloth in the gilded dish and wrung the lukewarm water from it. ''You can do it every day.''

He pursed his lips, but let her. 

''Hello, little bear.'' Rowenna leaned over the crib and picked up the boy's small legs. She lifted them up just enough to wipe his bottom. He pushed with them, and she smiled. ''You will be tall and lean like your Papa with these strong little legs, yes you will.''

The boy observed her, absorbing her voice. A crease wrinkled his small nose. He wasn't frightful of strangers in the slightest.

''Does he eat solids?'' Rowenna said. She removed the soiled linen and wiped him a second time. ''Changes in his stool might irritate his skin.''

''Regular cleaning and airing would prevent such things,'' Tywin said.

''Does he, though?'' She glanced at him as she took a clean square of linen from a shelf hewn into the side of the crib for such things.

''No. Some.'' He had trouble tolerating solids. Loren thought he might not ever, but it was too early for such conclusions.

Rowenna lifted her grandson's legs once more and slipped the linen under his bum, then wrapped it around and between his legs, tucking the tips secure. 

''He's late.'' 

Tywin glared at her back. He was not _late_.

Rowenna swaddled him in the crimson wrap with a deftness that hadn't waned even though it'd been decades. She lined up the edges so the words her daughter had embroidered along the border could be read across his little chest: 'Hear Me Snore'.

''May I sit with him?'' she said when she finished.

The temptation to say 'no' was there. Instead, Tywin gave a curt nod and indicated the lounge corner by the bay window. A plush couch, wood-carved chair and chest stood around three wolfskins spread upon the floorboards. They had been sewn together to form a soft playground for a small child. On the wall behind hung a bright tapestry with lively imagery.

Tywin went to the window as Rowenna sat down on the couch with her grandson. He drew the curtains aside, and the dreary day's watery sunlight flooded the nursery. It was raining still. _Look to the sea_, he thought as he gazed upon the sunset sea, dark and in turmoil. All his wife's chambers had windows onto the ocean.

''You're fortunate,'' she said after a while. ''Plenty boys.''

Tywin frowned. There had always been many men born to his family. He had three brothers, as had his father. And Kevan had three sons.

''Six of eight is unusual even for us,'' Kevan smiled, he had sat down beside Rowenna. He was happy for the amicable conversation, Tywin could tell.

''I thought we were trying for a perfect score,'' Brokken’s voice was a rumble of amusement. He had six children, all girls. And a seventh on the way.

Kevan turned to him. ''How is Aliyah?''

''Good. Two more moons, the maester says. Mayhap three.''

''Send a rider when the babe comes,'' Tywin said as he turned from the window. Brokken stood leaned against the wall beside his mother. Kevan moved to rise, but he shook his head and sat down in the chair. His gaze lingered on the toy knight and lady discarded on the furs. They were well-loved, the paint scuffed from their wooden bodies.

Rowenna gave him a curious look. ''And Loren?''

''My wife is not with child.'' It was impossible and too soon. Their babe was barely half a year old. At the look she and her son exchanged, his frown deepened. ''Out with it.''

Brokken shook his head, the gold beads in his beard clicking together.''T’is nonsense, my Lord.''

''I’ll be the judge of that.''

Brokken looked uncomfortable, and Tywin didn’t like it. His nephew avoided his gaze as he spoke. ''Years ago, when my sister and I were about Kevan’s age - no, a little older, but children still - we had been bored, about town.''

''They visited a witch woman, she lives a mile out of Lannisport in some sea cave,” Rowenna said, cutting her son's verbal dallying short. ''Against their parents’ express instructions, I might add.''

He pinned his nephew’s gaze. ''I know of the tale.''

Tension visibly slid from Brokken's broad shoulders. ''Oh, good. Yes. Naturally, she told you—you're her Lord Husband.''

''So I am.'' He tilted his head. He did not think Brokken had told Aliyah.

''T’was a lengthy thing, the woman cleaned us out of all our pocket money. I think we were there for more than an hourglass' turn. Anyway—there was a part about children.''

''I recall something of the sort, yes.''

''The sea hag said: 'Ten for him and seven for you, two raven daughters are to you true, and a son so bold shaped by gods of old'. It discouraged my sister at the time.'' Brokken shook his head. ''Loren believed it meant her husband would have bastards.''

Tywin scowled. He'd wed the two women he'd bedded.

''Your betrothal assuaged her concerns as you had three trueborn children. And even a son 'shaped by the gods' and, with all respect, bold as brass.''

He pursed his lips. Naming Tyrion bold was certainly one way of putting it.

''For a while, anyway,'' Brokken continued. ''Once she was with child, she came to fear 'raven daughters' and your reaction to children not born fair of hair.''

She had confided this to him though only after Kevan had been born. He glanced out the window, but it looked out to sea, not the mountains. ''Did the woman not also say 'your firstborn will be a golden boy'?''

Brokken looked at him queerly. ''No?''

Tywin frowned. Rowenna rose and gently laid her grandson in his crib. He’d fallen asleep.

Brokken gave a shrug of his enormous shoulders. ''You have three children, my sister has given you five more. You have two daughters, golden as the sun. We supposed there might be raven ones next.''

''Based on the poppy-addled ravings of some hag,'' he said. And yet, his nephew's words lingered. He tried to recall when his wife's cycle had last come upon her.

''She was right about my daughters.''

''If she had not been, it would not have mattered. We would all have long forgotten.'' He shook his head, dismissive. ''She predicts two or three? Nobody will be impressed. She predicts an oddity, and it comes true—six maids in a row? Then everyone remembers.''

''Seven.''

''She may be wrong yet then.''

Brokken frowned, his genial face shadowed. ''Aliyah thinks it a girl.''

Tywin crooked an eyebrow.

''She's borne six daughters already,'' Rowenna said. ''A woman knows.''

''Does she happen to know about this prophecy?'' Brokken avoided his gaze. It was as he had thought, then. ''We will speak when the babe arrives.''

Brokken bowed. ''Yes, my Lord.''

''Lord Tywin,'' Rowenna inclined her head.

''Allow me to see you out,'' Kevan said and offered her his arm. She accepted it, and his brother led their kin out the way they had come.

Tywin ran a hand along the crib its smooth, pale marble. It was old. He’d laid in it himself, and his father before him and his father’s father before that. Perhaps all the way back to the kings of old. He brushed the lioness her sculpted snout. A thin band of gold rested on her brow, circling under her stone ears. The queen of all beasts, ever gazing down on the infants of the Rock. 

His son rested on his back, still as stone in his clean swaddling. Too still. He reached into the crib, brushed a finger under the boy's small nose—nothing. His heartbeat picked up. He felt the swaddling band. It sat snug but not tight, he could fit two fingers under it with ease. He touched his son's nose again—still nothing. And then, a faint brush of air. A little smacking sound. He slept.

The maid still had not shown herself. He glared at the neatly made cot. They’d been here, how long, an hourglass’ turn? Longer. What kept her? 

Outside, on the far horizon, the sun broke the clouds over the sea. By the time Tywin heard footsteps once more, the cloud break touched the sundial. He squinted as the sun lit its golden peak on the noon hour. Light and hurried, the footsteps were. Not his younger brother. The creak of the servant’s door to his wife’s bedchambers, the rustle of the heavy door hangings as she entered the nursery. 

''There’s a good babe,'' she cooed. Her voice was timid, quiet as not to disturb the child.

Tywin pursed his lips as he glared out the window at the calming sea. The weather had broken. ''Where were you.''

A startled gasp as he heard her trip a step followed by the ring of porcelain on basalt. ''My Lord of Lannister!''

He glanced across his shoulder.

She promptly made an obeisance. There was a tremble to her tone when she spoke: ''I went to find a soothing salve, from the maester.''

He turned to face her, and she wilted under his gaze. She was a plump sort of maid, all red hair and pink-tinged skin. She held a mortar and pestle, and clean white linens across her arm. He frowned, for her kirtle was wrinkled and her braid had come loose. A lie? The hem of her skirts was damp and there was an ointment in the mortar. She'd gone to the maester, then. Yet, his study was atop the goodtower, right across the bailey.

''Took you some time.''

Her gaze fled to the rushes. ''The salve needed be made, milord. And the herbs gathered. We did as fast as we could be.''

_Perhaps_. Tywin pursed his lips. ''Why does my son need a salve?''

Her gaze stole up for an instant, then found refuge among the rushes once more. She shifted, moved the mortar to her other hand. ''The weelord has a spot of irritation. Nothing to concern milord, maester Creylen assured me.''

He’d seen the ugly rash along his son’s little thigh and buttocks. ''My Lady tells me this happens when a babe is not aired and cleaned enough.''

''Milady has returned?'' 

The alarm in her tone made him frown, and its insolence made him scowl.

Her cheeks flushed red. ''Apologies, it is not my place, milord.''

Loren had wanted to bring their infant son with them to King's Landing. She had protested against a wetnurse, citing their weak character and poor care. She had insisted their son would absorb their inadequate temperament through their milk. 

''Little ones their bottoms are very delicate, milord,'' she answered belatedly, diligently avoiding his gaze. ''The skin is so tender, but the ointment will help for sures. It will relieve the discomfort and heal the fair skin as new. Creylen assured me, milord.”

_Creylen, is it?_ He pursed his lips. He had forbidden his wife to bring the babe to court. Though he had tried to obtain a maid that she approved of, such a thing did not appear to exist. When she found fault with the fifth woman he had arranged, he decreed they keep the next. She had been cross with him for a week. ''When was the last time my son nursed?''

''This morn, milord. He drank his happy fill, I promise'' She put the ointment down and moved to the crib. 

Tyrion had attempted to mollify his mother with tall tales of heroes nursed by wolves and bears and all kinds of common-bodies. A fool's errand for his Lady Wife was not simple-minded. She had stood by her displeasure.

''I was meaning to nurse after changing his swaddles, milord.'' She picked the boy up, bobbed him gently till he woke.

''They have been changed.''

''Milord, you needn’t—''

''He is _my_ son.''

''As you say, milord,'' she said timidly. 

The boy whimpered.

Tywin stiffened at the sound. ''Feed him first.''

''As you say, milord,'' she repeated and sat down in the wooden chair by the window. The chair his wife would sit in when she nursed their infants. He scowled as the maid jostled his son while she unfastened her kirtle. She pushed the roughspun linen aside to expose her breast and nudged the boy against its fleshy curve.

His son gave a fussy cry, his small face screwed up.

Gerion had been a fussy baby, too. His wetnurse would sit there and nudge his little brother against her large bosom just the same. How old had he been? Days? Weeks?

''He's a wilful babe, milord.'' She looked up and smiled.

Gerion's wetnurse always laughed when their father grabbed her exposed teat or wide ass. A throaty laugh that drowned out his little brother's fussing. Tywin clenched his jaw. He'd told their Lady Mother.

''Milord, he won’t want for a drink from me yet,'' she said, bouncing the boy lightly.

_And who would,_ Tywin thought.

She held him closer, nudged his small mouth against her nipple. ''Go on little lord, show your papa you’re getting a big boy yet.''

_Your mother will return on the morrow, my boy. And then this clumsy calf will be gone._

''Do, little babe, drink and be strong,'' she said as she stroke his small head. “Do, my sweeting.''

_He’s not yours._ Tywin ground his teeth and looked at the tapestry instead. His wife had it made when she was pregnant with Helanna. Here, rode a knight through the rain, there, danced a bear and a maiden. A silver castle with water high in its baileys. A crumbling wall of ice. Seven sons with seven swords. And four maids with hair as the seasons who blew kisses to the sun.

''Drink, my little lion, it is good for you.''

His gaze snapped back to her. 

Loren called their children that.

''Give me my son.''

''He won’t feed, milord.'' 

She glanced up. And stiffened.

''Give me. My _son_.''

She hurried over to do as she was bid. Tywin cradled his little boy close as she lingered at his side and fidgeted with the edge of her sleeve. The babe snuggled against the soft fabric of his cotehardie. He gently rocked him and the whimpers subsided.

She smiled, the tension sliding from her like the rain from the window panes. 

''He knows his papa.''

At the touch on his arm, Tywin froze. 

Gerion's wetnurse always smiled when she took their father's arm as he held Gerion. As if his little brother was hers. As if he was theirs.

He swatted her hand away.

''Milord?'' she stammered and took a quick step back. 

''Don’t. Ever. Show your face here. Again,” Tywin managed through clenched teeth.

She stared at him, stupidly.

''Get out.''

She trembled. Her pale eyes were watery and doe-like with sudden fright.

''Get out before I string you up by his spare swaddling.''

A hiccoughed mewl escaped her as she clutched her face. She turned and rushed out in a whirl of skirts and sobs.

Tywin returned his attention to his son. The boy had dozed, his little fist dug into the edge of stoat lining his cotehardie. _She won’t come back_, he promised and leaned down to kiss his forehead._ And if she dares, we will send Mama her head with our deepest apologies._

He carried his son from the nursery, down to the great chamber. He paused before Joanna's portrait. Her emerald eyes smiled at him.

''This is Cersian.'' He turned, so the dozing boy faced the canvas. ''My — sixth son.'' He near said 'fifth'. She would not have approved. ''You may have heard him cry, he is fussy as Jaime was at this age.''

Cersian stirred and made a smacking noise as he woke. Sleepy eyes blinked open to reveal orbs as green as the ones rendered in paint.

''Loren named him for our daughter, to please her,'' he said as he folded the rabbit fur aside to let Cersian look at the portrait. ''It will work to be certain. You know what our girl is like.''

''Ma. Ma-ma?''

Tywin glanced down. 

Cersian stared at the painting with wide, uncertain eyes.

''No. Mama travel.''

''Maa?'' His timid voice wobbled, and moist set a sheen to his eyes at an alarming rate.

His chest tightened. ''No.'' 

His son's small face screwed up. 

''No. Don't cry.'' 

He abruptly sat down as cold sweat seized him with clammy hands. He turned his back to the portrait, to its judging gaze. ''Don't cry,'' he repeated. He pressed a knuckle to his son's cheek and tipped the tear rolling down away. ''Lions roar, they do not cry.''

Cersian stared at him in wet uncertainty.

He stroke his soft hair and pushed himself to smile. When that did nothing, he forced his smile wider. After a moment, a watery smile mirrored itself on his son's small face. And his own lost its cramped tension. 

A movement to his left. His gaze snapped up. A pasty youth in House livery made a neat bow, his face momentarily obscured by a curtain of chestnut hair. ''Milord.''

Tywin was about to send him away when he changed his mind. ''The porridge from last eve, is there any left?''

''Yes, milord.'' The boy cocked his head. ''He's a pretty baby, milord.''

Tywin's eyebrows rose, but he allowed it. It was true.

''He has smiling eyes, like milady Cersei.''

''_Queen_ Cersei.''

The youth blanched visibly.

''Fetch the porridge,'' he said with a dismissive jerk of his head.

''Yes, milord.'' The youth made a quick bow and hurried away.

Tywin sat with his son until Cersian grew restless. He wriggled in his swaddles, and Tywin smiled when he felt the kick of small feet. He undid the patterned crimson and Cersian squirmed from its soft confines with a chirp that sounded like victory.

Cersian took in his new surrounding with alert curiosity as he sat propped up against his father's chest. A small arm stretched out, tiny hand pointing and grasping. A babble that could have been a word, in a tone that would soon enough become a pint-sized command. 

Tywin did not need to look to know what was so stringently indicated. He rose and carried his son to the pride of limestone lions. One of them was a striding, roaring lion with a concave back that spoke of its long-time suffering. It had been caparisoned with a panel of crimson drapery. He crouched beside the stone animal and sat Cersian astride its back. Though he held him securely and supported his small head and neck.

Boots hit the stone and then rushes. Boots that he knew well—his brother.

''Kevan.''

Tywin did not look away from his son.

Cersian grasped at the lion's marble manes. His thick little legs flexed against its flanks, shifting the cloth.

''He'll make an excellent knight by the look of that,'' Kevan said. He came to stand beside them, fondness in his grey-green eyes.

Cersian made a smacking sound and patted the lion.

''Brother.''

Tywin kept this gaze trained on his son.

''Brother, we need to speak.'' Kevan sat down in the chair behind them. Judging by his resolute tone, he meant to stay.

''If we must.''

A sigh. The rustle of padded cloth. "I saw Evanke, as I came up. She was crying. Do you happen to know anything about that?''

_Mother used to say that._ Tywin scoffed. ''Who.''

Another sigh. ''Cersian's wetnurse.''

He scowled.

''She—,'' Kevan started.

''She near murdered my son.''

''She's scarce seven-and-ten, she didn't near murder him.'' Kevan shook his head. ''Cersian wriggled out, he may soon leave swaddles all together. He'd merely rolled onto his stoma—.''

''Tygett died on his stomach!'' Tywin roared. 

Little Tygett had laid on his stomach when they found him, partways out of his swaddles. The room had smelled of fresh herbs and talcum. The soft tap of Loren's slippers as she moved to the crib. He'd lain so sweet, so still. He'd thought him asleep as he went to the window. The sunlight warm as he drew the silken curtains aside. The air fresh as he opened the heavy panes.

Cersian stared at him with large eyes.

He'd thought his little son asleep. He remembered the smoothness of the curtains as they slipped through his fingers, the sinking feeling in his gut when she called for him._ 'Tywin._' The tremble in her voice had given him pause. Until it turned his name into a keen sharper than Dragonglass. Maester Hrothan had confirmed what they already knew—their son was dead.

''Tygett died on his stomach,'' he repeated, his tone dull.

''Which was awful.''

Loren had proposed they name their second son for his other brother. She'd wanted them to reconcile. His jaw worked, much good that had done them. They were dead within a week of each other. And he missed only one of them.

''And not Evanke's fault.''

_Yet_, he thought. He lifted Cersian off the lion and returned to the couch beneath Joanna's portrait, where he had sat earlier. The boy's small face screwed up into a pout, his tiny hands curling into little fists.

Tywin gestured at a threadbare velveret horse in a little chainmail hauberk. ''Hand me that.''

''What?'' Kevan frowned, confused.

''That. The horse. Under the tree-blighted table.''

Kevan saw it then and fished it from under the low table between them. He dusted it off before handing it to him. ''Isn't that Helanna's?''

''Yes.''

She had forgotten it, and they had all regretted that a day away from Stoney Sept. At least it had not been lost on the road, as his wife had feared. He gave it to Cersian, who eyed it warily before he grasped it with both hands.

''If the maid is the only reason you are here.''

Kevan shook his head as he had known he would. ''It is not.''

''What is it, then.''

''Why didn't you return to King's Landing?''

''People seemed reluctant to discuss betrothals in my presence.'' Tywin put his small son on the ground, sitting him between his feet. Cersian settled against his shin for support as he shook the horse and babbled to it. Tywin thought of Jaime. He was his oldest son, the one he had thought would lead their House after him. He had given him everything, was that the mistake? It had been no more than he had had himself. 

''We both know that isn't the whole of the truth.'' Kevan put his elbows on his knees and leaned towards him, clasping his hands together. ''Genna knows it, too.''

Jaime was foolhardy and cocksure. He ever only took the wrong things seriously, like his sister's wiles. He'd assumed Jaime would outgrow it but the tourney had shown otherwise. They might as well be conjoined these days.

''I need to be firmer with Kevan,'' he said. He had not been with the twins. 

And Cersei… she was scheming, he could tell. He’d always been able to tell. She was up to something and he had a poor feeling about it. For he'd always been the first one she told when someone displeased her. Not this time.

''You truly think this is best for Kevan?''

Tywin bristled. ''It does not matter what is best for Kevan. It matters what is best for our House and what is best for our House is that he stands on his own two feet. Sooner, rather than later.''

''He’s only nine, brother. He hasn’t even held a real sword.'' 

They had to find out. Kevan was Jaime’s squire now. And a squire knew a great deal about a man's goings-on. ''Perhaps it's past time that he should.''

''You do not mean that.''

Tywin pursed his lips. ''I will not be here to roar for him, forever. Neither will his mother. Nor you, or our sister.'' He glanced at his younger brother. ''He must learn to roar for himself.''

''You could write Kevan? Tell him you were waylaid. It happens.''

''I will not lie to my son.''

Cersei might have let her guard down after he'd left. Loren could build rapport with anyone. They were peers, had children of similar age, had not seen each other in years — it would be no challenge. She would find out. And she would get his daughter to come to Casterly Rock with the royal children.

''If this is the road you want him to walk, then do it.'' Kevan was clearly unhappy but he gave his council just the same. ''If a matter came up that required your attention, he might understand. Might learn even that, some times, such choices must be made. That it will one day be his duty to make them in your stead. Tell him you are proud he did this on his own.''

Tywin pursed his lips. They must assess what has become of Joffrey. See what sort of King he will be. He had wanted his son and grandson to grow up together, to form the lifelong friendship he’d once thought to have had with a king. Now, they were near boys grown and scarcely knew one another.

''He is _nine_. He will not figure out such a lesson on his own, though his mother might try and tell him that is what you intended.'' Kevan’s shoulders slumped. ''He’s still young, such a letter will surely soothe his tears.''

_Kevan does not cry,_ Tywin thought, but said: ''I have already done so.''

Kevan’s expression lit up. ''He will like that, his mother, too.''

Tywin did not doubt his brother was right about that. Although he was not foolish enough to think a mere letter would see his wife let it slide. He ought to have told her. Better to argue before, than after. She had a breath long as a bear’s wintersleep when she wanted to. But what was done, was done.

''Milords Lannister.''

Instead of the boy, it was Miana who appeared from the servants' stairs. She carried a ceramic bowl, wrapped in linen. She curtsied and put it on the low table before unwrapping the cloth. ''No raisins or chestnuts, or anything else like to trouble the babe. I strained it myself,'' she said as she opened the pan and held a silver spoon above the uncovered porridge. She then showed it to them—no misting on the delicate utensil. ''Not too hot, not cold, milord.''

_Sharp. You'll go a long way yet,_ he thought. He graced her with a curt nod of approval. ''Well done. You can go.''

She left with another curtsy and a well-pleased smile.

Tywin stirred the porridge, then touched the spoon against the back of his hand. Lukewarm. He scooped up a minute amount and brought it to Cersian’s equally small mouth. His son smacked, took the porridge in but then pushed it out again with a burble. He frowned, took a spoonful himself and moved it around in his mouth. Its texture was smooth, no hard components that needed to be chewed. No off-taste. 

''Too solid?'' Kevan asked.

Tywin took a second, smaller amount and prechewed it to a flat consistency. ''Grease clots.''

''Ah, yes. That some times bothers them if the soft lumps are too big.''

Tywin put it back on the spoon and offered it to Cersian. This time, his son suckled the porridge from the utensil and did not spit-up. ''He needs his mother’s milk.''

Kevan nodded. ''She will return soon.''

He could hear rain patter against the bloodwood shutters once more. The pass would close soon. They might ride for the Golden Tooth. Perhaps meet her at the border with the Riverlands.

''That board and pieces, upstairs,'' Kevan said. ''I do not believe I’ve seen that before?''

''Ser Brokken brought it this morn,'' Tywin said as he fed his son. ''They wanted to sway me to commit to a decision now.''

''You didn't, I suppose?''

Tywin glanced at his younger brother. 

Kevan's gaze moved up and down.

''The matter will be decided when the babe is born.''

''Brokken might yet have a son.'' Kevan leaned back in his seat and scratched his beard in precisely the same way his nephew was wont to. ''What if they have a son?''

Tywin wiped a remnant of porridge from Cersian's tiny chin. ''Then their son will inherit.''

Kevan frowned. ''The girls won't like that.''

''If I gave in to every whim 'the girls' had then my grandson would not be crown prince, and my son would be warding at Winterfell.''

Kevan's gaze was wary. He was with their good-family on this, then. ''In Dorne, the eldest child inherits. No matter if they’re a youth or a maid.''

Tywin pursed his lips. ''In Dorne, a man needn’t wed a woman nor provide for her, to lay claim to her children as true.''

Kevan’s frown deepened. ''I meant: there’s precedent.''

There was always precedent. And if there wasn’t, you needed to search harder. There were no original strategies. 'Every ploy has been done', as their Lady Mother would say.

''If the child is a girl, Tymen will inherit after his brother.''

''There have been ruling ladies of Lannisport before.''

''Widows and regents, all,'' Tywin said curtly.

''Celanna, during the Dance of the Dragons,'' Kevan said. ''She never wed.''

There had been rumours as to why that had been—some outrageous, some mundane. Tywin assumed she had not wanted for men, it happened. ''And Lannisport near had a Brax sit the Harbour Keep.''

''Lynara takes fancy to boys and maids. She’ll wed, have children of her own.''

''Lannisport will _not_ go to another House.'' Brokken had not mentioned his plans for his eldest daughter, but he'd inquire come vassal council. Better he know, who were keen to lay claim to Lannisport.

''Her husband could take our name.''

It made Tywin think of Feastfires. He could deflect inappropriate suitors of Lynara to Alynne if need be. Lord Emmerick might even thank him.

''Supposedly, Princess Gwelanna wed an Andal lord, ser Joffrey Lydden. When her father passed without sons, her husband was crowned by council under our name.''

“_Supposedly_,” he repeated. Perhaps a cousin. There were some near Lynara's age.

''You could stipulate betrothal by liege council as a clause to her inheritance.'' 

''She will not inherit,'' Tywin said. He put the spoon down. Cersian no longer wanted to eat. The boy whimpered. He lifted him up against his shoulder, gently patting his small back. ''Either her baby brother will, or her uncle.''

At long last, a note of anger rose in Kevan’s tone: ''Why not? She is a fine maid. She's smart, diligent, knows her books and her war charts.''

Tywin knew all that, for he had seen it. No doubt, his good-mother had made sure her granddaughter knew to show herself from all her best sides while she was his wife's lady-in-waiting. And she had. His unwillingness had nothing to do with the maid's abilities. Not even with the fact that she was a maid. Kevan had been correct: there had been numerous capable ladies from the Lannisport branch of their House. He pursed his lips in amusement. He was fairly convinced he was wed to one right now.

But no, there was another reason he was unwilling to set a precedent of his own: Casterly Rock. Jaime could not inherit, Aerys had seen to that. And he'd sooner be flayed alive than have Tyrion defame their family's proud stronghold as he had their name. It was Cersei who was his firstborn, the oldest of his twins. However, the laws of inheritance were clear and Casterly Rock passed her by. Yet these laws were not set in stone. As liege lord of the Westerlands, he could rule an exception for Lynara. His kin knew it, too. It was why they were lobbying with him.

Therein lay the crux of the matter: if he agreed, he'd set an example that such things may be done. And Cersei might glance at Casterly Rock for his daughter had never wanted for ambition. As her father, he was well within his rights to dismiss such a claim. He pursed his lips in wry amusement. But he'd wed her to the only man that could overrule him if he denied her.

He had considered it, once. She'd only just come to court. Scarce two-and-ten and she'd wrapped them all around her little finger, scheming for a child's desires with an adult's acuity. And ever pleased to boast to her father about her pint-sized triumphs. But those canny emerald eyes had changed. He'd seen it, at the tourney. There was a hunger there now, unchecked by reason.

No, Casterly Rock would go to his young son, Kevan. And should he himself pass this Winter, it would go to his Lady Wife as regent until their son was of age. Should neither of them live, Genna would be his regent. Then his brother, Kevan. Gerion, if he came back. Stafford, if it had to. And so it had been recorded with the maesters. If something happened to his son, Kevan… He thought of Tion as he looked at little Cersian and clenched his teeth. Nothing would happen to Kevan.

''The inheritance is clear,'' he said only. Casterly Rock must not go to Cersei. And thus, Lannisport could not go to Lynara.

''Tywin—.''

''Enough. It will be decided when the babe is born.''

Cersian gave a little burp then. A speck of porridge came up, and Tywin dabbed it away with the linen cloth.

''About Evanke,'' Kevan said, changing the topic.

He spread the crimson swaddles on the couch and laid his son on top of them. ''If you bring her back, I will hang her.''

Kevan opened his mouth, then closed it again.

_I will do it, brother,_ he thought as he tucked Cersian's little arms in place and wrapped the swaddles around him once more. _And you’ll find no support with my Lady. She never wanted her._

''Shall I ask Dorna?'' Kevan said, perhaps instead.

He glanced up, surprised.

''Our Janei is a tad older,'' Kevan continued. ''Dorna meant to stop weaning. However, she surely won’t mind for her little nephew.''

Tywin tilted his head. The Swyfts were chinless cravens but Dorna was a dutiful sort of woman. And she was kin. His wife would be hard-pressed to find fault with her. He suppressed a smile. She’d try. He had no doubt of that. He straightened the edges of the swaddles to show the other phrase she had embroidered onto them: 'Look To Me.'

''If she is willing,'' he said. 

Kevan sent one of the house guards for her and went himself upstairs to fetch the game his nephew had brought. It did not take long for the house guards to find her. She’d been putting Janei to bed for her noon nap, she told them as her husband set up the board.

''It’d be a delight and an honour, my Lord.'' Dorna looked at Cersian with motherly longing in her soft, brown eyes. She had clasped her hands in front of her, fingers laced. As if she had to hold them down, to keep herself from reaching for him.

Tywin cradled his son closer to his chest. House Swyft had been loyal banners for generations. Still, they were no Marbrands, no Kennings of Kayce or Farmans. Or even Westerlings — before the seashells had cracked, that is.

''What is it called?'' Kevan studied the board, then set up the screen in the middle.

''Brokken named it 'cyvasse', said it hails from Volantis.''

Kevan glanced up. ''Come, let's try a game.''

Dorna leaned towards Cersian as he observed her with curious eyes. 

Tywin did not hand his son over.

''Might he drink yet, my love?'' Kevan asked as he pushed the board further onto the table, towards his brother.

''If he should like,'' Dorna said as she stepped closer to Tywin. Her cautious movements reminded him of the rooster of her father’s House. Skittish paces, her head moving with minute jerks. Ready to flee at the merest hint of danger. He banished the thought. _Better than a butcher's maid._

Dorna held out her arms, ready to receive the babe.

He looked down at his son. _Your mother will return soon. We will ride to meet her, and bring her home to you._

He gave her Cersian then. 

She took him and moved away with such haste that it was all he could do not to jump up and snatch his child back.

A chuckle escaped Kevan as he picked up one of the dragonbone pieces: ''Our nephew is cleverer by half than he lets on.'' 

Tywin sat up and leaned towards the board. Wry amusement seeped through his irritable mood when he noticed that his brother had set it up in such a fashion that the goldenheart pieces would be his to play. On Tywin's side stood the smooth black shapes of the dragonbone ones. ''You ought to see the goldenheart monarch.''

''_You_ ought to see them together.'' 

There was a twinkle in his brother's voice that made Tywin look up. Kevan held both monarchs out, one laying on a palm each, side by side.

The three braids of the fierce goldenheart Queen were unmistakable. 

As unmistakable as the dragonbone King’s magnificent whiskers.

A barked laugh escaped him.

''Hah.''


	8. JAIME III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As this fic is rapidly becoming enormous, I will divide it up in 'parts' to keep it managable and collect them in a series called 'The Lion in Winter', the fic's original name. The first part, with the chapters you've read so far, is now called 'The Murder of Jon Arryn'. The second part will be, perhaps unsurprisingly, 'The Road to Winterfell' (guess what that will be about! lol). Though there will still be a few more chapters in part I, first. Poor Jon isn't dead, yet.

_Why_

Jaime could hear the snap of his sister's slippers from somewhere far away as he descended the steps of the Iron Throne in a daze. Kevan went beside him. Kevan, his little brother. Kevan, his squire.

_Why aren't you here?_

He didn't understand. He had been sure Lord Tywin would attend. He knew their father — he wouldn't have missed an opportunity to gloat.

_Something is wrong._

_This is a mistake._

The crowd come to honour his little brother had been substantial even before the ceremony. But, now, it had swollen to truly massive proportions and filled to cavernous Great Hall. Near a thousand were present or more. From above, the crowd seemed as colourful ants beneath their feet.

_How many of you hoped to catch Father in an agreeable mood?_

_Joke’s on them: Lord Tywin isn’t here._

The notion left a bitter aftertaste. 

_No matter, I am here._

"They have all come for you," Jaime said.

Kevan's pale eyes scrutinised the assembled folk great and small, and then his shoulders slumped. For they had come to rest on Lady Loren and had found their father's looming presence absent still. Instead, she went accompanied by Lord Jon once again.

_What all do you two have to talk about?_ Jaime thought as he watched them. Cersei yearned for an affair hiding behind their stepmother's every soft-hearted gesture. He imagined it, for a moment, for the sheer, shallow entertainment of it. The Hand had been tall, once, but now stood bend with age. He kept his grey hair in a neat ponytail, even though it had receded so far he might as well be bald.

_Not bloody likely,_ he thought with a shudder of amused revulsion. Lord Jon was decades older even than their father and in a poorer shape than his sister's marriage.

Tyrek, their cousin, trailed a few paces behind them. His dusty blonde hair sat in a fashionably messy bun, curly locks springing free. He wore a burgundy doublet lined with miniver, the rampant Lion of Lannister stitched in subtle goldwork along his left side. No yellow-and-black squire livery for Tyrek, today. Jaime needn't think particularly hard on who had directed the septas on the matter of his garments this morn.

Lady Loren's smile drifted towards them on the tone of her words. "That is very generous of you, my Lord."

"The courtesy, is, all mine, my Lady." There was a faint wheeze to Lord Jon's dulcet tones.

She smiled. "I am certain he will be much pleased when I send word."

_To who? Lord Tywin?_

Unlike his sister, Jaime had the disconcerting impression that she enjoyed being wed to their Lord Father. And Lord Tywin had seemed well-pleased with her, too.

_About what?_

He put a hand against his little brother's back and urged him towards them. "Come, I'm certain your mother will have brought a gift from Father."

Kevan visibly perked up at the suggestion.

_Don't make me a liar, Father._

When Lady Loren spotted them, she beamed and clasped her hands in front of her waist. "There they are." 

"My Lady." Jaime bowed, and Kevan followed his lead as a squire ought to. _Yes. Good._

"You did well, Lord Junior," Lord Jon said with a grandfather's tenderness.

Kevan's gaze wandered to the great oak-and-bronze doors. When he spoke, his tone was polite but flat: "Many thanks, Lord Hand."

Lord Jon favoured Kevan with a sympathetic smile, then turned to the boy's mother once more. "Perchance we might discuss the particulars after supper?"

From the corner of his eyes, Jaime saw Tyrek move closer to Kevan. Surreptitious, like.

"If it suits my Lord, I would prefer a smidge later," Lady Loren said. "When the children are abed."

Though only two-and-ten, Tyrek was tall for his age. He stole a glance at Lady Loren, then leaned towards Kevan. 'For you,' he mouthed.

Lord Jon clasped his hands behind his back with a nod. "Naturally, my Lady." 

Jaime saw it, in the split second it changed hands between the boys. A small object that would fit an adult's palm. Bone-white. Curved red whorls. A sharp tip.

_A quill knife?_

"My son is honoured that you would tutor him. Aren't you, Kevan?" Lady Loren turned towards them.

Jaime side-stepped into her line of sight, shielding the boys. "In that case. Lord Jon. Might we meet to—?"

"Bloody Seven, Jaime! I am right here!" 

Tyrion managed to keep himself standing as Jaime bumped into him but only just.

"—align his lessons," Jaime finished.

"Are you quite all right, young Lord Tyrion?"

"I am sorry to say that I am used to worse, Lord Hand." Tyrion straightened his leather cotehardie, smoothing its open-worked pattern of lions and leaves. He threw Jaime a look. "Though not usually from my brother."

Lady Loren's lips were a thin line that reminded Jaime unpleasantly of their father. _'Lions don't act like fools,'_ he mimed. _What are you mad at me for? You kept Tyrion here._

"I have time on the morrow. Say, noon?"

It took him a beat to recall what Lord Jon meant. "At your pleasure, my Lord," Jaime replied belatedly.

Kevan popped up beside him, no trace of the quill knife. Or, whatever, it had been. "Are you OK, uncle Tyrion?"

A well-pleased smile returned to his mother's face at his little brother's courtesy.

"Fine as ever. Thank you, Kevan."

Jaime caught Tyrion's gaze as it moved away from the boys. Had he seen? He lifted his chin. 

_Go on. Rat me out to her._

"These once held the dragon skulls, didn't they?" Tyrion said. Without breaking their stare, he indicated the nearby ironwood plinth. On it stood a Northern Elk the size of a horse with glossy black fur and magnificent antlers shaped like grasping hands.

"They certainly did."

Nineteen, in all, there had been. King Robert had removed them within the week of ascending the Iron Throne. He had replaced them with trophies from his hunts in no time at all. Jaime glanced at the massive cervid, amused despite himself. _A fat stag for a fat stag._

"That one was large enough to swallow you whole," he added.

"All misshapen bones and mangled sinew that I am, I won't be much good for eating," Tyrion quipped. He then turned to their little brother and cousin. "Two juicy squires, though?"

A hint of alarm paled Kevan's small face, right around his freckled nose. Tyrek solely crooked an eyebrow. He'd never been especially gullible.

"Which one sat here?" Tyrek asked.

Jaime shrugged. "A large one."

"Your profound knowledge never ceases to astound me, Jaime."

Tyrion's mocking comment stung. Jaime didn't know the name of the dragon, and that bothered him now. He wasn't stupid. He simply didn't care for history. _What use are bygone things?_

"A large female, maybe? It was one of the three most massive skulls," he added uselessly.

Tyrion rubbed his chin. "Vhagar, then."

Tyrek's gaze moved from Jaime to Tyrion and back. "Where's it now?"

Kevan opened his mouth but closed it again as Jaime shrugged and said: "Sold, I guess?"

"Vhagar belonged to Queen Visenya, Lady Mother of King Maegor," Tyrion told the boys. "She was a fierce dragon rider."

"Mother would have been a great dragon queen too," Kevan declared. The boys shared a look, and Tyrek agreed with a sage nod. It was laughable, of course, but what boy didn't fancy his Lady Mother a queen and himself a secret dragon knight?

"All dragons would bow to her!"

_You little ass-kisser_, Jaime thought, though not unkindly. After his uncle Tygett had died, Lady Darlessa returned home to Ashenmark. She had left their son and only child at Casterly Rock. Tyrek had clung to Lady Loren's skirts ever since.

Kevan backed Tyrek up straight away: "They would!"

Mild amusement rose in Lady Loren's eyes at the boys their wild boasts. "I think I shall cleave to lion taming." 

She and Tyrion exchanged a look, and his dwarf brother chuckled. After which she put an arm around her young son and nephew and hugged them to her sides. "Lord Jon offered to tutor you, Kevan. Isn't that generous?" she repeated her earlier remark.

Kevan's cheer crumbled, no doubt reminded of their father's absence. 

"I look forward to it, Lord Hand."

The listless duty with which his little brother spoke caused the cloud of motherly disapproval to cast its shadow across Lady Loren's features anew. 

"I'm sure your Lord Father has been waylaid, son," Lord Jon said with enviable certainty.

_The pass can be treacherous_, Jaime's thoughts whispered to him. The notion settled oddly in his gut.

Lady Loren squeezed her son closer and leaned towards him. "You were ever so brave today."

_Did she seem sad?_

Kevan's expression remained glum, and Tyrion nudged him with a shoulder. "Shall we write Father a letter, hm?"

Jaime's stomach rolled over with queasy dread. _Had something happened?_

Kevan glanced up with a hesitant smile.

_Nonsense. Father is as intractable as the Rock itself._

Tyrion's mismatched eyes squinted with fond encouragement. "Would you like that?"

_Nothing has befallen Lord Tywin_. Jaime glanced at Lady Loren. _She would have told me_.

"Yea."

Tyrion put an arm around their little brother's narrow shoulders. They really were almost of a height, Jaime noticed from somewhere far away.

"We will write Lord Tywin and tell him all about this party," Tyrion said as he drew an arch before them with his free hand. "And how you faced the great, frightful path to our beloved King and Queen without a shred of fear."

_Wait. Write Father?_ Jaime's stomach wrung itself once more although for a wholly different reason this time. Why hadn't he thought of writing a letter together to cheer his little brother up?

"And the gifts?" Kevan fingered the quartz pommel of his brand-new dagger. "I want to tell Father about it."

Tyrion gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "I am certain he wants to hear all about that magnificent blade."

Jaime highly doubted Lord Tywin cared about the trinkets Kevan had received. No, he would want to hear about his progress with swordplay. 

"You can include a sketch for him," Tyrion added.

Jaime would help their little brother write letters. Proper ones which Lord Tywin would be pleased to read. He was _his_ squire.

Kevan's demeanour turned self-conscious. "It has a difficult design…"

"All the more reason to do it," Tyrion said. "You can demonstrate to Father how much you have improved since he left."

Kevan smiled at that.

"Lord Junior, if I may." Lord Jon stepped aside to permit two soldiers in the livery of the Eyrie approach. They carried a large cage between them, covered in a sky blue cloth embroidered in silver with the falcon of House Arryn.

_Large enough to fit you, Tyrion,_ Jaime thought. When they were young, he and Cersei had tricked their toddler brother into an empty wine cask. The vintner had nearly taken him with. No doubt his sister's delight at the prospect had given it away. Father had been furious.

The household guards put their load down in front of Kevan. Inside, something stirred with a grumpy snarl. Kevan's eyes went wide as saucers, and even Tyrek leaned in with a boyish eagerness that reminded Jaime he was only two-and-ten. No matter how much he pretended to be a man grown.

"It is no lion," Lord Jon said as he caught Lady Loren's wary glance. It sounded as much an apology as an assurance. "But I should hope it pleases all the same."

Kevan's grin lost an inch of its width at that. Ever since he'd heard of the lions their grandfather used to keep, he'd talked of nothing else. No matter how often Lady Loren reminded his little brother that they'd almost been the death of him.

Lord Jon clasped his hands behind his back, and at his nod, one of the soldiers reached for the cloth. The boys crowded closer. It slid away to reveal a cage of castle-cast iron, the rampant Lion of Lannister worked into the bars.

And inside?

Inside sat the largest cat Jaime had ever seen. The largest one that wasn't a lion that is. It had long legs, a bushy tail and a glossy coat so thick around its long head that it gave the impression of manes. With its creamy beige fur and intelligent, moss-green eyes, it certainly looked the next best thing.

"_Skogkatt_, the clans call them: 'forest lion'," Lord Jon said as he came to stand beside the enthralled boys. "No true lion, to be sure, but they are fine hunters and climbers." He glanced at Lady Loren, who looked sceptical. "And fiercely protective pets."

"What is his name?" Kevan asked as the animal padded towards him. He cautiously petted its lush fur.

"Her," Lord Jon corrected mildly. "And, whatever you should like, Lord Junior."

Kevan need not think for very long. 

"Visenya," he said and caressed her long nose. "Her name is Visenya." The massive feline purred as if in dignified approval. 

"A fine name for such a noble creature," Lady Loren said. "Gnaeus?"

The reek of the sea presaged the ironborn his approach from somewhere behind Jaime. "Milady of Lannister."

"See to it that the newest member of our family is made comfortable in the family solar—."

"Can she stay in my bed chambers, Lady Mother?" Kevan put his hands together as if in prayer.

Ser Gnaeus stood beside Jaime, patiently waiting for Lady Loren to continue her instructions. Jaime wished the greasy lowborn wouldn't stand so close. Why Lord Tywin permitted him the captaincy of their household guard was beyond him.

Lady Loren made a cutting gesture with her hand. "Absolutely not."

Kevan pursed his lips but kept his peace as his mother returned her attention to Ser Gnaeus. "See Visenya settled in the family solar and be sure to have Lord Jon's kennel master note down all my son needs to know to take proper care of her."

"By your will, milady." 

Ser Gnaeus signalled, and soldiers in the livery of House Lannister approached. They lifted the cage under his directions and followed him from the Great Hall. The cat sat up, straight and prim as if she were carried in a gilded palanquin rather than an iron cage. And she beheld him with feline disdain that squinted her emerald eyes. Her air reminded Jaime bizarrely of his twin. Except, Cersei never looked at _him_ that way.

"Excellent. Now that the best gift has been given, I can present my humble offering like the modest token it is." Tyrion held up a parcel, wrapped in a satchel of sturdy linen.

"You know your junior brother better than I, young Lord Tyrion," Lord Jon said. "I am certain yours is a gift from the heart."

Tyrion inclined his head as he gave the parcel to Kevan. "You are too kind."

Kevan's eyes lit up as he unwrapped the satchel to reveal a leather-bound book. _What kind of book is that?_ Jaime thought, for all its fine parchment pages were blank.

"Look, mother!" Kevan thrust it at her with both hands.

"How lovely, dearheart," Lady Loren said as she leaned back to avoid being struck in the chest.

Kevan beamed. "It's a sketchbook! With new parchment!"

Lord Jon smiled and clasped his hands behind his back.

"Thank your brother, Kevan," she said then. "That is no trinket he gave you."

Kevan flung his arms around Tyrion's neck and soundly kissed his cheek. "A million humble thanks!"

Tyrion froze, then smiled and kissed his freckled cheek in turn. "Anything for you, Kevan," he said as he affectionately patted his blonde curls before extracting himself from the boy's suffocating hold.

Lady Loren had wrapped the precious album in its protective satchel once more. She handed it to Kevan, who hung it across his shoulder like a bandolier.

Tyrion gave Jaime an expectant look. "And what fine gift have you brought for our little brother?" 

Heat rose in his throat. 

Kevan turned to him, excitement lighting up his curious gaze. 

He didn't have a gift. 

His heart pounded in his ears. 

Why didn't he have a gift? 

Did Cersei have a gift?

He swallowed his shame and lifted his chin.

"He'll be my squire."

Kevan grinned. "I will be the _best_ squire."

But Tyrion crooked a judging eyebrow, and Jaime felt all the worse for it. _I will give him a sword and show him how to use it_, he thought as Kevan hugged the satchel and talked to his mother. _He will soon forget about your stupid book._

"I am surprised you didn't give him a girl," Jaime said. He glanced down at his misshapen brother. "Seems more your style."

"And books aren't?" Tyrion said with an amused scoff. "I confess— I had found the gentlest maid for our baby brother, but our beloved Lord Father misunderstood what I meant when I said she'd look sweet with a fine bow around her neck."

Jaime chuckled despite himself.

"The maids will come for him, soon enough," Tyrion added on a more sober tone.

Jaime entertained its inflexion to be jealousy. "I imagine he'll beat them to it." 

Tyrion gave him a curious look, but Jaime didn't elaborate. If the Manning girl had been anything to go on, then sooner rather than later. He wondered what they had told Kevan about boys and girls. Nothing, if his own experience was anything to go on. He'd overheard everything useful from the household guards.

He glanced down at Tyrion, who picked a wine glass from a passing maid's serving tray. He said something that made her giggle.

Jaime shook his head in mild judgement. His brother had all the low vices. He would explain Kevan what he needed to know about girls before Tyrion gave him all the wrong impressions. From the corner of his eyes, he saw a tall man cloaked in sable and slate stride towards them with purpose. For a moment, he thought, despite everything — but no. It was Lord Stannis Baratheon, his wife and daughter in tow.

Kevan glanced up, and his grin faltered as well. Tyrion put a hand on his shoulder and gave him a gentle push forward. Their little brother's smile reasserted itself, but Jaime's heart sank all the same when he saw it no longer reached his eyes.

_It'll be over, soon,_ he promised. 

_It'll be over and we'll write Father._

Lord Stannis Baratheon was a tall man, but there the resemblance to his brother ended. Where Robert was round and boisterous, Stannis was thin and severe as a headsman's spike. The cut of his cotehardie was orderly and unimaginative, its subtle pattern of foliage exact. A half-cloak the shade of storm clouds fell to his heels, clasped to the leather strap fastening it across his chest with a silvered stag.

"My congratulations, squire Kevan," Lord Stannis said with a bow deep enough to dust the floor. Even _their_ Father would be pleased to see the King's brother humble himself so. A glimmer of delight returned to Kevan's eyes at his new 'title', and Jaime was glad for it.

"May you serve Ser Jaime well." Lord Stannis' eyes moved to him as he rose, and he didn't like the way the older man's gaze lingered; dark blue eyes shadowed with suspicion under his heavy brow.

"I will be the _best_ squire!" Kevan proclaimed, and not for the last time.

Jaime put a hand on Kevan's shoulder as he held the Lord of Dragonstone's gaze and lifted his chin. "You already are."

Lord Stannis' ground his teeth, and Jaime smiled.

"My wife, the Lady Selyse," Lord Stannis managed through his clenched teeth. He stepped to the side to make space for her. Dressed in cream and pale gold, the woman reminded Jaime unpleasantly of a shorn sheep.

Kevan bowed promptly, and far too deeply, for the spindly Lady of Dragonstone. He'd have a word with his little brother about that. Kin to the King they may be, but as heir to a Great House, they were neither his nor their father's peers.

"I am much pleased you could come from faraway Dragonstone."

Jaime caught Kevan stealing a glance at his mother for approval. She'd no doubt drilled him on probable guests. However, she was immersed in conversation with Lord Jon, once again. Tyrek, seeming bored, loitered nearby.

"I'm sure," Lady Selyse said, her reply terse in a fashion her station could hardly afford.

Jaime fixed her a look, which she ignored.

"Hello." Shireen made a timid but sweet curtsy, samite skirts rustling. Her voice had been soft, barely above a whisper, but Lady Selyse gawked as if she'd shouted an obscenity.

"Sweet lady!" Kevan replied as he performed a bow deeper still. "Hi, to you, too."

He had to admit, the way his little brother fumbled his courtesy with an informality was endearing. _No doubt Father would disagree._

Evidently, so did Lady Selyse, for her expression curdled like milk at Kevan's boyish gallantry.

A blush tinged Shireen's pale cheeks a healthy pink. Where they hadn't been ravaged by the stony growth of the grey plague, that is.

_Poor girl._

Shireen had delicate features, fine and fragile as Penthosian porcelain. It made the horrendous marks the illness had left on her seem all the more severe.

"Thank you, Lord Squire," she said, her voice scarcely more than a sweet whisper.

Jaime stifled a chortled at the conglomerate 'title', for Kevan's benefit. It wouldn't do to make his little brother feel shamed.

Kevan gave her a solemn look. "I'm sorry for what happened to your face."

Lord Stannis stiffened, and Lady Selyse seemed ready for the ground to swallow them all whole. Jaime put his hand on the pommel of his sword, casual-like. And Tyrek inched towards them, failing spectacularly at pretending not to stare at the girl.

Shireen's cheeks turned positively crimson. "It is not your fault, sweet squire. The gods do as they will."

Kevan grinned. "I think it makes you look as if you won a fight with a stone-singer!"

Jaime knew his stepmother kept the old gods, he'd seen her come from the godswood. Whatever stone-singers were, it sounded like something from the elder faith.

"Really?" Her voice had somehow managed to become even softer.

Kevan nodded heartily, shorn up curls bouncing. "Like you dodged the magic and slew them where they stood!"

A shy but happy smile appeared on her face. 

"Nonsense." Lady Selyse's sharp voice shattered the moment like a forge hammer to Gardnerian faience. Lord Jon looked up from his conversation with Lady Loren. "Such creatures do not exist. It is by the grace of the Seven-Who-Are-One that our daughter lives."

Shireen's smile evaporated, and Jaime's gut wrung tight —and she wasn't even _his_ sister!

Kevan's small face clouded with all too familiar disapproval.

"Yes, they do," he said quietly.

"No, they do not." Lady Selyse took her daughter's shoulder. "Do not listen to the foolish boy, Shireen."

"Grand Maester Elwynn of White Harbour recorded certain accounts from the North—," Tyrion started.

"Enough."

It seemed Lord Stannis deigned to back up his wife after all.

"Do not listen to the boy," Lady Selyse repeated and threw Jaime a look. "Who far too much takes after his brother."

_As if I would woe a maid eaten at by the plague,_ he thought unkindly. It must have shown on his face, for Lady Selyse's pinched expression thinned to a steely edge.

He flinched as Lady Loren swept past him.

"Why, I should be thrilled if my Kevan takes after a knight as skilled as Ser Jaime," she said as she physically and verbally entered the conversation. Lord Jon and Tyrek followed in her wake. Lady Loren lightly took Shireen's chin and tilted the girl's face up to her. "My young son is right. I agree it is a fierce look, indeed." And good lords didn't she seem serious, too. 

Kevan beamed as if the objective fact of the matter had been laid down. "See?" 

And perhaps, it had been. 

For even though Lady Loren smiled, her dark eyes forwarned the gravest trouble should anyone dare disagree. Jaime had seen his stepmother give Lord Tywin that very same look when Tion hadn't wanted to ride again during the tourney after falling from his pony. Unlike their Lord Father, the Stormlanders were duly cowed by it.

Lord Stannis ground his teeth as cheer returned to Shireen, just a little bit. "Thank you, Grand Lady," she whispered with another curtsy. "I am humbled."

"Ser Verin." Lord Stannis beckoned, and a barrel-chested knight in yellow-and-black Baratheon livery approached. He carried a flat, rectangular package. "From the library beneath Dragonstone," Lord Stannis added as the man turned back the leather cover to reveal a hefty volume within.

'Civil unrest: the legacy of Aegon and his Sister-Wives,' it read in faded goldwork. This was no children's book, by any means. Jaime looked up to find Lord Stannis observing him.

He raised his chin. _What is it, you uptight bunghole?_

Lord Jon frowned, but Lady Loren brushed past it. "How fortunate that I have a son enthralled with dragons," she said with an airy motion for the regretfully never-far Ser Gnaeus to take the gift. Jaime knew it was the ironborn as the caustic scent of brine assaulted him.

"I thought it weren't my squiring?" Tyrion said with a hearty chuckle.

Ser Gnaeus leaned down to permit Tyrion and Kevan access to the hefty tome.

Though a frown wrinkled Lady Loren's brow, a smile tugged at her lips. "Yes, when _are_ you going to, sweet son of mine?"

"If the gods are good, never," Tyrion muttered, his eyes diligently glued to the tome. He ran his fingertips across the faded goldwork with a noise of appreciation.

Lady Loren's smile faded, but she let it slide.

_She'll get back to you on that, I bet,_ Jaime thought and felt vaguely sorry for his brother.

"Can we look up Visenya?" Kevan asked. 

Tyrek leaned in over their shoulders as Tyrion opened the tome on a stunning woodcut of Aegon the Conqueror, founder of the once-ruling dynasty of Westeros.

"Certainly. Ser Gnaeus, if you will," Tyrion said as he directed them all towards the dais. The boys herded over and climbed onto it and into the monstrous Elk's shadow, eager to see more of the tome's exquisite prints.

Jaime moved away as Tyrion started reading the book to the boys. He didn't particularly care for the history of the dragon lords, long by-gone. He joined Lord Jon and Lady Loren, but they had picked up their conversation, and his thoughts soon trailed off. He found the old Hand boring as could be.

He scanned the milling crowd for his childhood friend, but to his chagrin, Addam was nowhere to be found. Neither was his twin, for that matter. Though he located their gracious King readily enough —laughing and eating and in the company of women that weren't his Lady Queen. Lady Gwendolyn Manning held on to his arm as if she owned it, her clear laughter stressing the punchline of his every jest. Brinde Rykker, sister to Lord Renfred, stood beside her friend once again. She'd made herself scarce while Lord Tywin had been about court, for her own Lord Father had once made a jest that his had not yet seen fit to forget. Ah, and Mina Blout,_ of course_. The only difference between her and Robert's many whores was that she didn't charge for it. Small wonder he liked her best.

_No hangings here_, he thought with wry amusement. Cersei had demanded it, once, but Robert had called her out of her mind, and that was that. Unlike their father, who had jumped at the occasion when Lady Loren had prompted him to. The dumb maid had swung in the coastal gales before the day was out. Cersei had been livid about that, too. She aught have figured —schemes that hinged on Lord Tywin being unwilling to hang someone were bound to go poorly.

Jaime remembered, then, the letter he would help Kevan write to their father. It was a while before dinner, yet. They could write one, bring it to the maester and have their fill after.

He turned to the dais, but Tyrion was no longer there. 

And neither were the boys.

Lady Loren's voice floated above the hubbub of the crowd: "Do visit sometime." 

"My Lady Wife, she is not one for travel." Lord Jon's reply was cautious but not unkind. "But, Robert would, surely, enjoy the trip."

Jaime paused. Cersei wanted the Arryns to come to the Westerlands as well. Or, at least, young Robert. But why? 

"The sea clime might strengthen him," Lady Loren said. "It is known to fortify the humours."

_Right, he's sickly_.

Maybe, that was why?

_Women..._

"A generous offer, my Lady," Lord Jon said. "And I, shall, consider it."

"I am certain your visit would please my Lord Husband."

_Like a mine collapse, I am sure,_ Jaime thought as he studied the crowd for a sign of his little brother and young cousin.

"Our Lady-Mother is a well-honed expert on the preciously few things that bring pleasure to our Lord Father."

"Tyrion."

Lady Loren didn't sound near as amused as she had before.

"It was a tribute, truly."

_Sure, it was,_ Jaime thought as he turned to them. The look of disapproval she levelled on his dwarf brother made it clear she thought much the same.

"My apologies, Lord Jon. I do not know what has gotten into him," she told the old Hand. "He isn't a quarter this bold with his Lord Father about."

Jaime smiled wryly as he recalled his brother's earlier jest: _Nothing like the threat of decapitation to keep the children in line._

"Kevan, too," she added.

Lord Jon frowned. "Do not give your brother a poor example, young Lord Tyrion."

"I wouldn't dare," Tyrion said. However, he had the sense to look uncomfortable under their combined parental disapproval. He was only four-and-twenty —near a decade younger than Cersei and him— after all.

"Where is Kevan, Tyrion?" Jaime said as he strode into their conversation.

To his satisfaction, Lady Loren's disapproval furrowed deeper yet. "Yes, where _is_ your brother?"

No clever jab about his brother standing right in front of her, this time. Instead, Tyrion glanced about, but Jaime had already looked: neither of the boys was nearby. "They were right here," he said uselessly. "They must have gone to fetch a bite or sip."

Lady Loren moved to speak, however, before she could instruct the imp to find them, Jaime intervened: "I will find him."

"Send word when you do."

"As you say, my Lady." Jaime inclined his head. "I will return shortly."

She smiled at him, and he languished in the approval.

_That's right. You can leave this task with me,_ Jaime thought as she continued her conversation with Lord Jon. Which now decidedly took place above his brother's head, literally and figuratively.

_I will never lose sight of Kevan while he's with me._

Jaime began his search at the trestle tables where guests caroused, and Southeron wine passed freely. To see if the boys might be attempting to wheedle a sip from someone. Lord Tywin allowed them a watered-down cup with their sup, but that was all. No luck there, however. On then, he went, to the towering arrangements of pastries and dainties, but they weren't there either. Nor did he see them at the mummers, where a skinny maid swallowed a slender Braavosi blade whole. Even the wildfire-breather hadn't seen them. At that point, an unpleasant feeling started gnawing at his guts.

In the days since they'd first arrived, Jaime had learned his little brother loved to climb. He had found out because Kevan had attempted to scale the Tower of the Hand. And their Lord Father, evidently still eagle-eyed, had spotted him from a balcony half a bailey away. Suffice to say, the sight had elicited a fairly lengthy and loud reprimand on the spot. One which had informed Jaime, and no doubt half of King's Landing, that Lord Tywin was here and disapproved of his young son's antics.

Nevertheless, Jaime had seen Kevan scale the inner bailey to try anew scant a day later. What if Tyrion had bored him, and he had gone out to climb? He could be half-way up unto the Royal Sept's roof for all they knew!

Jaime resisted the urge to run, to not alarm Lady Loren. 

Instead, he forced himself to a pace and strode towards the great wood-and-bronze doors despite the anxiety howling in his ears. He dodged between them and, the instant the heavy doors shut behind him, he dashed out onto the inner bailey, head up, surveying the merlons. Trying to spot a small person running them on his way up to the Royal Sept's great dome like a boy-shaped mountain goat.

He didn't see Kevan.

Not on the eastern guard parapet.

Nor the peaked Small Hall's roof.

Or even the still unconquered beacon.

Jaime's heart pounded in his ears.

_Where are you?_

He kept scanning the battlements atop the holdfast's great curtain walls, the nearby Tower of the Hand and the Royal Sept. Afraid to look down. Afraid to find a small, crumpled form in the shadow of a tall buttress.

A boy's voice reached his ears from somewhere below, measured and earnest: "How fast do you think it can go?"

_Tyrek._

"Faster than Oddball, for sure."

_Kevan?_

Jaime wheeled around, sprinted across the bailey, skidded by the guard quarters and bounded down the steps to the stables.

"I wonder who he belongs to."

He spotted them then, by the temporary corral where the horses of guests stood awaiting their masters' return: Tyrek and Kevan.

_Kevan._

"KEVAN!"

They started terribly at his roar. And speedily fumbled something from view as he ran towards them.

"Out with it! Why did you two sneak off?" he said, out of breath, and harsher than he meant to.

They glanced at one another, and then at the ground.

"No reasons." Tyrek shrugged. "To see the horses. I guess."

Kevan nodded far too quickly.

Jaime crossed his arms. "I saw you give it to him earlier, Tyrek." 

Tyrek gave him a nonchalant 'so what' look but Kevan looked horribly guilty.

"I am not angry."

He wasn't, truly. All he felt was relieved.

The doubt in their eyes spoke volumes. And Jaime's heart rolled down into his stomach as he realised why: he was just another adult, to them. He uncrossed his arms, forced his stance to loosen, his face to smile. "I am your _brother_. I am not your mother, and gods-be-mild, certainly not our father."

Kevan bit the corner of his lip as he exchanged a look with Tyrek.

"I am not angry," he repeated. "_And_ I won't tell Lady Loren."

"You swear?" 

Tyrek, of course.

"Brother's honour."

"OK. Fine." Tyrek glanced away, moodily. "Show him, Kev."

Kevan pulled a short, pointed object from his boot and held it out. It was a queer thing, covered in strange whorls inked with flaking red paint. He thought it was made of bone, the way it had warmed from sitting against the boy's shin.

It was a quill knife, just as he'd thought.

"Father let me have a quill knife when I was six," he said as he handed it back to Kevan. "But don't let your mother find it while he's away, I doubt she'll believe either of us on the matter."

"OK!" Kevan tucked it in his small boot once more, adjusting his chausses to conceal the short heft.

"Next time you two sneak out," he said and indicated the both of them. "You tell me. Worry your mother, and she'll set the whole of the city guard on you. A fine good your secrets will be, then."

The boys exchanged a look that told him plainly they thought themselves plenty capable of avoiding the city guard and their mother besides.

"If you tell me, I can say all is well."

"That would be better, wouldn't it?" Kevan asked Tyrek.

Tyrek gave Jaime a sceptical glance. "s'pose."

Kevan turned to him then and squared his narrow shoulders. "I promise I will tell you."

Tyrek nodded, but Jaime noticed he promised no such thing.

"Tyrek, go inform Lady Loren where Kevan and I are." The older boy squared his jaw, but Jaime didn't give him a chance. He jerked his head in the general direction of the Great Hall. "Go."

Tyrek stuck his hands in the pockets of his breeches with a moody pout but did as he was bid.

"Do you know who it belongs to?" Kevan said as Tyrek left.

Jaime turned to the horse beside them, a light palfrey of palest cream with a long, thin neck and golden manes. The animal was neatly trimmed, its coat painstakingly clean and brushed to a sheen. The tack it wore was a fine, amber-brown with delicate gold work. However, nothing gave away the identity of its owner —no embossed crest, subtle stitched motto or even House colours for Jaime to place.

"One of the ladies of the court, I imagine." 

It was a costly animal. Jaime glanced across the coterie of horses assembled around it. Easily, the most expensive one.

"He's very pretty," Kevan said in the understatement of the century and rubbed its soft pink nose.

Jaime didn't think even he had ever had a palfrey quite as lovely as this one, as a youth. And Osis had been no nag.

Kevan scratched the horse's forelock, and its ears flicked forward, observing the boy with intelligent blue eyes. Something about the animal seemed familiar to Jaime.

"If only Pa were here—," Kevan said, dejected.

_If only,_ Jaime thought.

But Lord Tywin wasn't here.

"—I could ask if, _maybe_, if I am good and do not explore for a while, then maybe we could buy him?"

_If he'd splurge like that on anyone, it'd be you._

It hit Jaime then when the horse turned its head just so: the reason for the odd sensation of familiarity. There was a slight dishing to its head, similar to their father's pedigreed horses. The Lannisters kept their own herdbook, had for generations. The concave nose was a distinctive mark, the result of crossbreeding with sand steeds from Dorne. Allegedly, one of the Kings of the Rock had brought home a prized mare from the wars with Dorne.

"We could, very subtly, mention it in our letter?" Jaime said. "You're getting taller. It won't be long until your ponies are too slight to carry you."

Kevan glanced up. "Our letter?"

Right. He hadn't yet informed him of his decision. 

"Yes, to Father," Jaime said. "He'll want to know if you've kept up with your swordplay and lessons."

"True!" Kevan smiled and petted the horse.

_I'll find out for you who he belongs to,_ Jaime thought. _And then we'll see under which conditions they are willing to part with it._

"When will we start?" 

Jaime paused. "Start what?"

"Training!" Kevan glanced at him across his shoulder, an eager smile on his face. "I will be the _best_ squire."

_Oh, right._

"Come then," Jaime said and beckoned him as he strode to the waist-high wall that hemmed the upper bailey. He dropped his shield against it as Kevan climbed onto it, all knees and scrambling feet.

Jaime took off his white cloak, folded it and laid it on his shield. "You stopped your training with Uncle Kevan when you left for King's Landing, I take it?"

"Yes," Kevan said as he sat on the wall, kicking his feet.

Jaime put his hands beside him on the rough stones and sat himself up onto the wall with a push. He adjusted his position until moderately comfortable on the uneven rocks.

"Though I practised with Father before..." Kevan's voice trailed off, and his smile faltered.

"And you have been lazying about the minute he turned his back?" Jaime made sure to grin when Kevan glanced at him, affront on his small face.

"Did not! I practised on my own!"

"Reeeallly?" Jaime teased.

"I will show you!" Kevan wriggled towards the edge as if to hop off the wall, but Jaime stopped him.

"Yes, you will. But not today."

Kevan actually seemed crestfallen. Jaime smiled, his little brother was so eager. That was good, of course. Proficiency required dedication and dedication came easy when you had enthusiasm.

"However!" he continued in an overacted mime of their Lord Father's habitual severity. "You will practice every morning, starting tomorrow. _Forever_."

That drew a chortle from Kevan which made Jaime smile in turn and filled him with a warm sense of camaraderie. "I am only half-joking, you know."

Kevan grinned. "I'll be there!"

"You better," Jaime said and thoroughly ruffled his curls.

A server hurried from the nearby kitchen pantry with a heavy tray, crossing the inner bailey towards the Great Hall. Jaime saw what laid upon the polished silver and whistled, sharp and hard.

The server abruptly halted and turned to look in the direction from which she came. Then about herself, left and right. Jaime raised his hand and whistled again. She spotted them then, and he beckoned, prompting her to hasten over. Kevan's eyes grew big as saucers when he saw what she brought with: _fruitcakes_! Fruitcakes in every flavour he loved: blueberry-and-cacao, lemon and almond sprinkles, honeyed apple, and crunchy sugared peanut with raspberry filling.

"Milords of Lannister." The young woman curtsied despite her massive tray, not a single sugar shaving shifting. Then held up the mountain of cakes at their pleasure.

Kevan needn't be asked twice. He immediately took a lemon cake, and then a blueberry one for seconds with a furtive glance at Jaime.

_They don't allow you many, do they?_ Jaime thought, but said as he picked a honeyed apple one: "Leave the tray."

Kevan happily munched the lemon cake.

The server shifted, a stammer in her reply. "Beg your pardon, milord, but these are for younger Lord Kevan of Lannister."

Jaime cocked his head. "And who do you reckon this smartly armoured munchkin is?"

"Hi!" Kevan said, and crumbs spilt far and wide.

"Milords, I—." Her glance flicked from them to the pantry she'd come from and back.

Jaime lifted his eyebrows.

"As you say, milord." The server moved then stopped, undecided where to put the cake-laden tray.

"Give it here," Jaime said, and she gave it to him with a dubious look. He adjusted his position and held the tray on his lap. "Want another?"

Kevan's grin doubled in width. He rapidly chomped the remainder of the lemon cake to free a hand for a third one. He picked a honeyed apple one as well this time.

"Any other pleasure, milord?"

Jaime had all but forgotten about the server lingering at their elbows. He glanced at her as he ran his tongue past his molars in an attempt to dislodge the honeyed cake stuck there.

"Ale would be good."

"As you please, milord." She left with a quick courtesy, back towards the pantry.

"Twey aw dewicious," Kevan said, scarcely intelligible from the quantity of cake in his mouth. Crumbs flew once more and doused Jaime in a shower of crumbled confectionary.

Jaime chewed and swallowed his food with deliberate gestures, then spoke: "Kevan."

"Sorry," Kevan said amid a second rain of crumbs. Startled, he chewed and swallowed his bite promptly, and repeated sheepishly: "Sorry."

"How would you like it if you were showered in crumbs all the time?" Jaime said as he crumbled his last bit of cake in his fist. Kevan gave him a confused glance but then shrieked when Jaime opened his palm and blew the crumbs into his little brother's face.

Kevan retaliated immediately.

Crumbs flew back and forth, soon followed by whole chunks as their laughter carried across the bailey.

"It's in your hair!" Kevan hiccuped with laughter.

Jaime shook his head like a hound, and his little brother chortled with delight.

"Milords."

A server holding a sturdy wood platter with overfull pewter tankards of foaming ale stood beside them. It was a man this time, dressed in yellow-and-black Baratheon livery. Older than Jaime himself, by his grey-streaked hair. He surveyed the field of their cake war, and the broken remnants of its pitiful fallen, with the same judgement that would assuredly grace their Lord Father's face should he _ever_ find out about it.

Jaime picked up a tankard, ale sloshing over the edge. He changed hands and shook the foam as he drank deeply. The server promptly left for the Great Hall.

"Can I have some?"

Jaime glanced across the pewter edge to see two green eyes begging up at him. No crumbs, this time.

"Your mother will keelhaul me if she finds out."

"I won't tell, I promise." Kevan put his hands together as if in prayer.

"All right." Jaime lowered the tankard. "But you cannot give her a kiss. Not until tomorrow, or so."

Indignant confusion slunk unto Kevan's face, creasing his small nose with displeasure. Always a bad sign, on his mother.

"Why."

Jaime flinched, missed a swallow and ale burned up his nose. He coughed as tears stung his eyes.

Kevan's stern expression evaporated, replaced by concern: "Are you OK, Jay?"

"Yea—," Jaime managed. He handed the hefty tankard to Kevan as he rubbed his sleeve past his eyes. Sweet gods. His little brother's mouth had opened, and his father's voice had come out.

"Strong ale," he added.

"Why can't I kiss Ma if I drink ale?" Kevan gave the tankard a thoughtful look. "She doesn't mind when Pa does it."

The notion of their father indulging in ale seemed wildly improbable to Jaime. But apparently!

"I imagine that's because she doesn't mind him having alcohol in the first place. You, however..."

Kevan's frown scrunched in precisely that way when someone thinks you're shitting them. "What does that have to do with kisses?"

"She'll smell it on your breath if you give her a kiss," Jaime explained. 

Dawning understanding appeared on Kevan's face.

The wary look he now gave the tankard amused Jaime. "And if that happens, we'll both be grounded for the next aeon, or worse—."

"—clean the balusters of salt-set with a hoof pick!" they finished together. And Casterly Rock had a great many of those. Balusters that is. They would know.

"I won't, I promise," Kevan said as he held the tankard with both hands.

"All right."

Jaime watched him take a careful sip. His expression pinched, and he coughed. Jaime smiled and put a hand under the tankard to steady it. "Careful. Stronger than watered wine, this."

Kevan nodded and grinned despite the water gathering in his eyes. "I like it!"

_Sure you do,_ Jaime thought, amused, but said: "Of course you do! You're a boy now, no longer a baby."

Kevan beamed, and Jaime put his arm around his narrow shoulders. He would remember the sounds of today for a long time: the slosh of ale, the ring of their armour against each other, and his little brother's bright, clear laughter. Cake crumbs had gotten under his tunic, and his sleeve was soaked with drink, but he didn't care.

He hugged the boy against his side and leaned in towards him. Kevan glanced up above a rim of pewter, foam on his nose.

"Remember today, little brother," he said as he held him close.

"For today? Today, life is good."


End file.
